


Reel Around the Sun

by hannah_jpg



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the heat of her hands, he thought, "This is the fire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me, and care for me. I will hold onto this pulse above all other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of the day but here is my future in her palm."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Firedance

We sail into the sun, our hope on the horizon. It seems we've arrived at an everlasting journey: a hungering and yearning rushes through our lives.

.

.

August 3019 TA

Éomer had never been so hot in his life. Not in Minas Tirith during the summer, or the small cities that flourished in sight of the sea during the seasons where even the nights were hot and sticky and markets opened at dusk. Nor even on yearly campaigns in the Mark, where he could rarely take off his full armor and mail for the threat of orcs or Dunlendings.

The sun beat down on his back, and it burned his skin even through the handkerchief he had tied around his head to hang down his neck at the example of Aragorn and Imrahil. He kept his eyes closed, for the reflection of the sun off of sand beneath Firefoot's hooves blinded him. He wanted to weep for the pure misery of it all, for his tears would be disguised in the tracks of sweat that dripped from his head and down his body. The light cotton tunic and loose fitting breeches had helped him none, and as soon as the sun was halfway in the sky, he had withdrawn in his wretchedness. And that had been hours ago. He wished whole-heartedly that he had opted out of this endeavor. Imrahil had written for his company for the 'adventure' of it, not for the danger posed to Gondor. At least, Aragorn had assured them that there was no longer any threat from most of the Haradrim tribes. His assent has been easy enough to give, a favor for his friend, within the cool walls of Meduseld in the early spring that only hinted at the warm season to come. Work out a trade agreement with the desert tribes, Imrahil had suggested. See new landscapes, try new foods. Meet my daughter, married long since to a Haradrim lord. Share more stories and jokes with Amrothos. Ha!

Éomer pulled his water-skin from his saddle and drank deeply, wishing he could stop to share with Firefoot. The poor horse was bearing the heat much better than he himself. He had been the recipient of many hoots and jibes when he had tried to dismount for lunch, for the scorching sand had burned his feet, even with his shoes. The moment his feet had touched ground, he had yelped and pulled himself halfway back into the saddle quick as a wink, looking very undignified with his legs hanging.

"Think of the stories you will have to tell Éowyn and your marshals in Edoras," Imrahil had said, meaning well.

"I have had enough adventures for my lifetime," he grumbled to himself now. "I have naught to gain from this. If I had known this ruddy expedition would be too tiresome to enjoy the time with my friends, I would have declined."

"Come now, Éomer," he heard a jubilant voice beside him, and he looked to see Erchirion falling in. "One might think you are not enjoying yourself."

"I am not," Éomer snapped. "Take your jokes elsewhere."

"You should restore your good humor before we arrive," Erchirion said. "My sister will find no joy in playing hostess to one so ill-tempered."

"Her hostess skills had best be unmatched, for if there is no cool water for a bath and lovely ladies to rub salve on my burned skin, I am turning straight for home."

Erchirion laughed. "I only came to tell you the village is in sight, anyhow."

Éomer pulled his gaze higher, and squinted at the horizon. He could see several tents as well, close enough that they had no doubt been in sight for an hour or more. Erichirion rode on ahead to speak to his father, and Éomer was left to brood alone. If the village was any further, it would take more than a cool bath to satisfy me, he thought.

.

.

There were crudely constructed pens that ushered the way into the makeshift village. Éomer was not familiar with Haradrim husbandry, but the flocks of sheep and goats seemed as thin as the ones back in the Mark. A few scrawny children were tending the animals, and gazed upon the company of northern men with great wonder.

A noble and impressive first impression he was.

The sun was finally descending, only an hour or so from disappearing completely. The light was now a vibrant orange, giving everything a golden glow. It did not help with the heat. He rubbed the back of his neck with the handkerchief for the hundredth time, and it did not give any relief, for the hundredth time.

The horses in front of him had stopped, but nudging Firefoot, he easily continued his way through to the front line, stopping next to Amrothos. He looked across at his companions, and saw that none were speaking, only staring straight ahead in solemnity, surprise, and anger. He turned to see what is was holding their attention so religiously.

Directly in the center of the circle of tents, there stood a single wooden pole, three hand-spans wide and probably three meters tall. To the pole, a naked woman was secured, her arms wrapped around her back and tied together with cruel rope. Her long, dark hair hung in front of her face and obstructed most of the view of her body, but even so, there was no question of her nudity. She was filthy and bruised, and very thin. She might have been burnt by the sun as well, or incredibly tan. Éomer could not tell, but continued to look on in the dreadful silence. He then noticed that the company was now tense and taut as a bowstring.

"Lothíriel…?" Imrahil's voice was a low inhale. The woman lifted her head, hair falling away from her face, and Éomer saw the features of his friends from Dol Amroth on it. Straight nose, large grey eyes, and a pronounced jawline. The woman only stared at Imrahil, eyes narrowing in recognition.

The prince jumped from his horse and ran to her side, quickly pulling a knife from his side to hack at her bindings. Amrothos was shaking beside Éomer, in greater fury than he had seen at the Black Gate. Erchirion had dismounted as well, and stepped forward a bit before stopping, his hands clenched in tight fists. Éomer felt righteous anger burning in him as well. For a high-bred lady to be treated thus was a crime in itself, made worse by her relation to his greatest friends.

The ropes fell to the ground, and Imrahil stood and held his hands to his daughter to help her stand. She did not take them, raising herself on visibly shaking legs, flipping her hair behind her. Her back was straight, chin high, eyes flashing. Armed with no weapons, nor indeed a stitch of clothing, Éomer quaked in his saddle at the sight of this dangerous woman.

"Five months!" she screeched, balling her hands at her sides. "Five months I have waited!"

Imrahil stepped back at the sudden onslaught, looking staggered.

"Five months! Did it truly not cross your brilliant mind, Father, that your Gondorian daughter may not be safe among the Haradrim after huge numbers of the Haradrim do not come back from a war with Gondor!"

Amrothos was on the ground now as well, and made a move to approach the scene, but the continued screaming kept him from advancing.

"And even then! Why was I left here during the war? Should my stay have been pleasant during that time? Did you truly think that Barul would not be summoned to fight for the Haradrim once open war was declared? That I would be safe among your enemies?"

Imrahil stepped forward, against the wailing that carried across the village, and no doubt penetrating every tent. The shepherds could probably hear as well. "Daugher, please…"

"Please nothing!" the woman cried. "I have been tethered to this ruddy pole for eight days. And before then, I had rotten meat thrown at me if I stuck my head out of my home! What, in the name of the Valar, made you think that I was welcome here?" She stood tall, nearly as tall as Imrahil, her nostrils flaring. Éomer was surprised there no spits of flame coming from her mouth. Her brothers and father had spoken of her so affectionately. Blinded by familial love, he thought. For there is little pleasant about this creature. Still, he admired her fury. She was so very elegant, nakedness and all.

Her wrath abated now that she had spoken her immediate complaints, Erchirion had crept behind her and threw a cloak over her shoulders. She made no move to cover herself. Éomer's eyes were dragged down by the sight of her breasts. Full, and made perkier by her posture. He fought to keep a smile from forming. Delectable though her body may be, as his friends' sister she was forbidden territory.

"Could we continue this inside?" he heard Imrahil ask gently. He had stepped close to his daughter to pull the cloak across her body.

"Inside!" Lothíriel's voice rose again to a piercing shriek. Éomer's ears rang. "I have been banished from my home! By Barul's first wife – if you remember that he has such. She burned my clothing and executed my horse!"

Executed a horse! Éomer now matched Lothíriel's brothers for madness.

The woman seemed to calm herself, taking a moment to rake her eyes over the company of guards, packhorses, and royalty that stood stock still at the entrance to the village. Her eyes did not linger on Éomer, strangely to his regret.

"I am returning to the land of my home," she said in a more level voice. "We will leave tonight." She strode from the scene, a serene figure in the dusk, and after she disappeared out of sight he heard her screeching again, this time directed at another person, and in a language unknown to him. Imrahil and his sons now whispered to each other, heads close together. Lothíriel appeared a moment later, dragging a massive cart behind her with her bare hands. Éomer decided that her anger was giving her greater strength, for no woman was strong enough to pull such a heavy object.

"We are taking this. Get a horse," she ordered, to no one in particular. Aragorn nodded at a couple of his guards, and they immediately got to work. "Two more," Lothíriel said, looking expectant. Once these men were produced as well, she showed them to a tent. "Take every third barrel," she told them. "Load them in the cart. Quickly now!"

Éomer exchanged glances with Aragorn. He cared for Imrahil deeply, but their task in this journey seemed now to be to contain a hurricane. This woman was so bloody bossy! But she was not done with her raging yet. She stalked towards the largest tent, throwing the flaps open with no ceremony and seeming to steel herself and breathe deeply before entering and continuing her shrieks.

Her voice would be hoarse in the morning, of this Éomer was sure, as would the voice of the woman that was answering Lothíriel's shouts with her own. Soon she exited, clutching a wooden box in her hands. She stopped for a moment to tell the guards loading the cart to fetch the two oak trunks from the large tent, and then walked straight up to Imrahil.

"I am ready," she said. "Please, no more delay. They can stay to finish loading," she added, gesturing towards the guards.

"Very well," Imrahil said. "If you will consent to dress quickly, and promise to explain further as we ride."

"I swear it," Lothíriel promised with venom. That would not be a pleasant telling, Éomer decided. Best to keep out of the way of his friends from Dol Amroth. At least they would be returning to less blistering weather sooner than expected.

The lady did not seek privacy to dress herself, stepping into a pair of Erchirion's trousers in front of the company. Most of the lads were looking away, but in the dim light, Éomer felt that his appraisal would go unnoticed. A spare horse was brought forward for her but as she was starting to mount, the flaps to another tent were thrown open and a woman came running out, throwing herself at Lothíriel's feet, howling laments in the language of the Haradrim. Lothíriel answered sharply, and then turned to her father.

"You did not, by chance, bring a maid servant?" she said.

"I did not," Imrahil answered. "This situation is...extremely unexpected, daughter."

"Very well. Maida will come," she turned to the woman at her feet and relayed the news. The Haradrim woman began to cry, kissing the hem of Lothíriel's cloak. So they had to wait for this woman to gather her belongings, which consisted of a young boy-child and a small sack. Éomer's heart moved with pity for the woman, who was undoubtedly a war widow. The situation was the same across Middle-earth. Surely this woman had no hand in the mistreatment of Imrahil's daughter, for she seemed to worship the princess.

The sun was fully gone by the time the company turned their horses back north and set off. They only went a mile before stopping to make camp for the night. Éomer made sure to set an extra pair of guards, for there was danger of vengeance from the town they had just left. Though would they attack to retrieve a princess they had bound and abused? He was not sure.

Éomer's squire pitched his tent that night three down from the princess's, but the weeping of her handmaid still entered his dreaming.

.

.

Dawn broke early, and Éomer rubbed his eyes, groaning as he noticed the sweat already beginning to appear on his forehead. Ten days of travel, and they would be back in Minas Tirith. He wondered briefly as he dressed, if Mithrandir's famed eagles would consent to bearing him north, even north enough to home. The thought of cool winds only deepened his misery. He tugged at his trousers, which resisted him for the stickiness of his skin. Under his breath, he cursed the sun, the heat, the desert, the sand...

His friends were already eating a breakfast of biscuits and dried fruit when Éomer departed his tent. Accepting his portion from a guard, he stood beside Aragorn. The sand was far too hot to sit on, and trees for seating were completely absent from the landscape. The dying fire was allowed to sputter out, for that much he was grateful - the added heat would be most unwelcome. The noise of breaking camp swam around them, filling the air with familiar routine. It comforted him.

"What do you make of our new guest?" Aragorn addressed him, and Éomer quickly swallowed his mouthful of biscuit.

"I cannot know," he replied. "It is clear she is from a noble lineage, but she is wretched. I believe that if she were in her natural element, she would make a powerful lady, though not in physical fighting," At this he chuckled. "That is more Éowyn's talent. But Lothíriel would be a formidable administrator. If she had taken charge of this war, it might have ended three years earlier."

Aragorn joined him in laughter. "Your assessment is the same as mine, my friend," he said. "If I had known such efficency came from education at Imrahil's home, I might have docked there myself. I hear the weather is pleasant, if one likes salty air."

"Did someone mention salty and my father in the same sentence?" They were approached at that moment by Amrothos, who strode to their company with his usual swag. "I would agree," he continued as if he had not interrupted them. "In Dol Amroth we refer to grouchy old men as salty, because they have spend so much time by the sea. Though my father has spent his years coddled in the palace…"

Aragorn and Éomer shared an amused glance. "How fares your sister?" Aragorn asked, obviously intending to keep the conversation from teasing the prince.

Amrothos grimaced. "I do not know, for she will not see me."

Éomer laughed. "The first lady to have that reaction to your new face!"

Amrothos put a hand to his cheek, where a jagged scar marred his features. At his pained look, Éomer knew he was still sensitive about it, and smirked. This youngest prince had few weakness to exploit in a battle of wits, and so Éomer decided to press his advantage. He opened his mouth to speak, but the attention of all present was drawn to the recently rescued lady, who departed her tent in haste, and it seemed, in anger. Her father followed her out, clearly wanting to have words with her, but she pointedly ignored her father and helped herself to breakfast to the dismay of the guards meant to be serving it.

"Good morning, Lot," Amrothos said loudly. She nodded in their direction, but did not look at him.

"I hope you slept well, my lady," Aragorn said. "We are delighted to have your gracious presence on our trek. Perhaps you have some knowledge of these lands - I am much interested in any folklore or tales of the happenings."

Lothíriel finally looked at them, concealing her surprise quickly behind cool composure. "Of course, my lord King," she said, lowering her head slightly. "I would be happy to satisfy your curiosity in any way I can." Now that her eyes were sweeping the group, her gaze fell upon Éomer, and a look of interest sharpened her features.

"Lothíriel, this is the king of Rohan," Imrahil interjected quickly, trying to place a hand on her arm, which she rebuffed. "He has accompanied us on this venture as our great friend and ally. I apologize for not introducing you last night."

"Charmed," the lady said, giving him no less respect in her actions than Aragorn, though her words were stiffer. Formally, there were no faults in her conduct, but her true feelings showed through well enough. She did not like him, and he wondered as to the cause.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied.

"Please, let us depart in haste," Imrahil said. It was clear that he did not wish to linger in his agitated demeanor, and since the guards and soldiers had made short work of the camp, they were soon on their way.

The pace was slower than the day before, for the carts that the lady had insisted on bringing plodded behind them. Éomer would have risked a gallop in the heat, if it could mean that they arrive under the shade of trees sooner. He half-listened to Lothíriel's tales to Aragorn - legends of the land, peculiarities of the people, and of the great danger of sandstorms. It was not until a question relevant to him did his interest perk.

"What happened to your husband, my lady?" Aragorn asked. Éomer noticed that Imrahil had ridden near to them. He wondered if Imrahil's unhappiness was in part due to his daughter's refusal to confide in him. For she seemed disinclined in look favorably upon her father at the present.

"He was trampled on the Pelennor, by the Rohirric charge," she said, unhesitating. Éomer felt his stomach turn to lead, cold tingles creeping up his spine. He had never been accused of murder before, and now it did not sit pleasantly with him. He felt the acute accusation in the pointed way she refused to look at him, while the others were curiously trying to gauge his reaction. His color rose. "At least that is what I was told," she added. "When it comes to battle, who may know."

"I regret the death of all good men, whatever side they fought with," Éomer said, as a response was clearly expected in the ensuing silence. "I can personally attest that the twisted mechanisms of Sauron and Saruman have lead to the deaths of many misguided innocents."

"Of course," Lothíriel sounded surprised, and her piercing gaze shot to him. "I do not mean to offend, I certainly cannot hold you responsible for your entire nation, commander king or no. And I can hardly fault your actions, for though I have lived among the Haradrim these past years, I have never been aligned with the Dark Lord. His motives and methods were pure evil."

Éomer had not noticed the tension in the air until it was released, now, in a hiss. Had others been concerned for her alliance, as the wife of a Harad lord? He could not have doubted Imrahil's daughter, himself. Her nobility shone through her countenance like blazing light, with her steely eyes and proud chin. There was no deception in her. In that way she was not dissimilar to Éowyn, but this lady made him far more uncomfortable. He adjusted himself awkwardly in his saddle, still aware of her scrutiny.

"What stories do the Haradrim tell of the war?" This question from Erchirion, who was riding directly behind Éomer, who relaxed as the conversation was drawn from him. For the way the lady had looked at him, he had the distinct impression that she had a practiced memory, and that none of his words would be forgotten. Even as the journey continued, he still felt her sharp gaze on him every so often. What could she be thinking?

Best not to worry himself over it. He had enough on his mind as it was. What was the saying that his mother always recited? Sufficient are the problems of each day to itself. If the princess was truly someone to concern himself over, he was sure it would occur later. For now, focusing on not getting sick of heatstroke would be enough. Blasted sun.


	2. Distant Thunder

_Hear my cry in my hungering search for you; taste my breath on the wind. See the sky as it mirrors my colors,_ _hints and whispers: begin!_

_._

_._

**September 3019 TA**

_The braziers, lit in the last glows of sunset_ , gave off more unwelcome warmth. It was just Éomer's luck that they had brought along an unseasonal heat wave to Minas Tirith with them from the desert. He doubted now that he would ever be cool again. Even with chilled wine in his hand, and leaning out the terrace as far as he could with the hope that a breeze would reach Merethrond, he was despondent. There was dancing in the hall, but the humidity and stink of bodies had sent him in search of fresh air. Not that there was an abundance of that.

He might have enjoyed the dancing more, if there had been a partner desirable enough to him. But having beheld the beauty of the Evenstar, newly wedded to Aragorn, he felt as though his heart would always be his. He despaired for it, wondering if he was doomed to spend the rest of his days alone. Éowyn would not be returning to Meduseld before she married, so her company was forfeit. And there had never been a greater time for it, for with the loss of seemingly all his relations, he dreaded the prospect of his future. Considering the poor fate he had been dealt in that regard, he thanked the Valar for his life with only slight bitterness, for it was what he was given at the very least.

A jingling of jewelry against stone drew Éomer's attention from his dark thoughts to his immediate right. He saw, to his manly satisfaction, a lady's rear protruding. She was leaning out, the architecture obstructing the view of her shoulders and head. He immediately berated himself for his improper thoughts, and even more for he recognized the garment.

Imrahil's daughter had caused quite a stir at dinner, arriving in the dress and jewels of her marital home. Éomer had never seen a Haradrim woman, and now he regretted it. Lothíriel was draped in midnight blue silk, embroidered with silver thread and sparkling with diamonds, but the thick folds that swept the length of the legs and across her shoulders neglected to cover her stomach. Very immodest by the standards in the West, but not so in Harad. Pleasing to Éomer's taste, however. Even the silver bangles that wrapped her ankles were considered scandalous. He approached her, his interest growing.

"It is a beautiful night, I think," she said before he could open his mouth to speak. Her gaze was not drawn from the Pelennor. "A bit cool for my taste, and the stars are different here." She turned, and Éomer found himself dazzled by her smile.

"Yes, my lady," he managed. "The stars differ in the Mark as well, though not quite so much."

"I should like to see the Mark," she said.

"You are welcome to my home, if you wish."

"I shall consider it." Her voice had grown low, and she spoke as if her words were a vow. Éomer's skin tingled for the briefest moment, and he wondered if he had just made a mistake. "You do not belong here," she said, changing the subject abruptly. "No more than I myself. We are the odd ones, I suppose. I believe our acceptance comes only from our friends and family."

"Why do you say that?"

Lothíriel smiled. "We are here, and all others are not. It is regrettable, for I would wager that not many have such tales to tell as you and I. Not a single person has asked me of the famed mûmakil, though I have heard that they wrecked a great amount of damage. But even my brothers have been afraid to broach topics of my recent affairs."

"The losses of my people came largely from those monsters," Éomer said. He did not know why he said it, for he could not blame her for it, and it darkened the mood slightly. He mentally shook himself. "What knowledge have you to share of them?"

"None, for I have never seen one." She began to giggle at her own quip, and he could not help but to join her in laughter. The stars were eye-catching, he decided, but not nearly so much as his sparking companion. With the design of her garment, she might be the night herself. "Would you tell me of the Mark?" she asked, composing her features.

He obliged, setting his wine down to show with his hands of his home that he loved. The freedom of plains, the waves of grass – green in the spring, brown in the autumn. The shimmering snow at Yule. Mountains, sparsely settled but producing fine wools and mushrooms and wild berries aplenty. Few, but beloved rivers that ran ice water from the tops of the mountains. The feel of the abundant breezes on a steady gallop, wildflowers that grew along the foot of Edoras. He was pleased to make her laugh as he explained the pastime of catching fish with bare hands, a feat that if successful, turned a boy into a hero.

Lothíriel was quiet for a moment when he finished. He had not told her all, but the night was wearing on and he did not want to intimidate her with his fondness for the Riddermark. He wondered at his desire to be gentle to her, and not removing his gaze from her face, he vowed to burn it in his memory. "I shall be frank with you," she said, breaking his reverie. "My father does not know as yet, but I have no intention of returning to the city of my childhood. I have had my own home, and ran my own household. I will not submit to the yoke of another woman." Éomer knew she was referring to her eldest brother's wife, who was the mistress of the palace at Dol Amroth. She continued, "Or a man, for that matter. I have riches aplenty, and I am young and find great joy in expending my energy. I do not want to spend my days in the petty nuances of court life. I wish to do something of worth."

"Imrahil does not seem the type to deny you," Éomer said.

"But he will," she contradicted. "For my mistreatment, he will want to protect me from further harm, as all men are wont to do. But what is life if we risk nothing? - for then we gain nothing. I would rather chase the sun than wait for it. I have never felt the need for my life to proceed without my input. That is the surest way to be stuck with an unfavorable lot, if any."

He smiled at her passionate words. "I do not see you as a woman that would allow yourself to be coddled and hidden. You seem to have a hold on your fate, more than most that I know. I believe that you could entrap the sun, if you wished it."

"Then I shall make it so," she said, stiffening her posture. "Thank you for your wise words, I shall remember them. Good evening, my lord." She inclined her head, and was gone from his side before he could fathom her rapid departure.

Éomer decided that it was a fortunate thing that he was leaving Minas Tirith at the end of the week. This woman wrecked his composure. He gave a silent prayer to the twinkling stars that she would find a path away from his home. He worried for the effect she would have on the newly-won peace of the rolling plains of the Riddermark. He downed his now warm wine, and retired for the night.

.

.

His fears were sounded. He was packing his belongings in saddle-bags the night before his departure when Imrahil summoned him. There was no choice but to comply with such an official order. Worries crowded his mind as he walked through the busy corridors. Was he to be lectured? He considered the Prince near a father for the camaraderie they built during the war, but not so much to accept the overbearing consequences of authority.

"So," the Prince said, fingering his wineglass. They were sitting across from one another in Imrahil's study. Éomer felt even more that he was in for a scolding, for the solemnity in his friend's features. He waited for the verdict, which was not long in coming. Imrahil took a deep breath. "Lothíriel informed me that you extended an invitation for her to visit your home."

Éomer exhaled sharply, without relief. "I did. It was a casual invitation. I can only assume she discussed it with you, since you are addressing the fact. I did expect her to take it seriously."

"Discussed? She all but informed me that she was leaving with your men tomorrow morning," Imrahil's distress was revealed, his voice rising in volume and fingers clenching the stem of his glass.

Éomer could only stare in response. "I am unaware of these plans, I assure you."

The prince sighed, and set down the glass, leaning forward to pierce Éomer with his gaze. The color was so close to Lothíriel's that he felt considerably disconcerted. He gulped as Imrahil spoke. "I cannot deny her this, you must understand. She is not under my jurisdiction. She has some wealth, and independence. But she is also beautiful, and has a fiery spirit. It is a dangerous contribution. Surely you have noticed the plight of the widows here in Minas Tirith."

"Plight?" He nearly laughed. "It would seem that some of such ladies see themselves as far privileged for the rewards they reap. At least when the men of my nation crowded the city."

"Even so. But Lothíriel is different. She has always reveled in hard work and the rewards that come from it."

"She has told me that much herself."

Imrahil paused for a moment, and Éomer felt himself quake under the scrutiny. "I ask a favor of you, my friend," the Prince said.

"I shall grant it if at all possible."

"Please look after her while she dwells in your lands. She will despise any meddling, of course, especially if it seems high-handed. But perhaps you might be her friend, so that your concern for her welfare is not so overbearing."

"It will be my pleasure to look after such a noble lady," Éomer said, trying to not sound facetious. He did not think that he succeeded. Imrahil's daughter was too high-minded and self-willed by far. It would not be an easy task, and he doubted it would be enjoyable. Except for the obvious advantages of socializing with a beautiful lady. And she was polite enough to him, or at least she had been during their few conversations. He leaned back in his chair. "I believe there to be a solution. I know of a leaderless hamlet near to Dunharrow. The master was killed on the Pelennor without an heir. The people do not wish to leave, for they love their home, but none of the other lords are willing to take on such a project. I think that your daughter might thrive in such a place. The air is clean, and the people kindly. The only factor that is less than ideal is that the farmland surrounding the area has not healed quite yet. It will, in time, but it will take work to sustain the village properly. She may not live in the comforts that she was born to for some time," Éomer leaned forward. "Might I ask for your thoughts?"

For the first time since they had found Lothíriel tied up and so battered, a small smile lingered on Imrahil's face. "A fine solution. I believe that she will be in accordance, considering her love for adventure." They stood, and clasped arms briefly. "I will talk to her. I expect she will depart with you tomorrow, if she finds the idea acceptable."

.

.

And so, Éomer was the least surprised when Lothíriel arrived at their company, taking her place directly behind him on a cream-colored palfrey. But truthfully, he was still taken aback by her appearance. There were more than a few gaped mouths, and his right-hand man, Elfhelm, audibly huffed in disbelief before rolling his eyes.

She was sitting proudly, in a riding dress made of a color that reminisced that of a faded sunset. A few shades brighter and it would have been painful to the eyes. Her elegant features were nicely set off by the color, so the attention was undoubtedly for her beauty. She lifted her chin, the only sign that she was aware of the stares, and reined her horse to a halt. Nobody moved. "My baggage has been sent to the rear of the line, along with your own," Lothíriel said, loud enough to broke no protest. She looked around for a moment. "We were to leave at dawn, correct?"

"You are correct, my lady," Éomer inclined his head before mounting Firefoot. "We are honored by your presence. If you are in need of anything," he gestured towards his squire. "Féola will assist you." How he wished that he could capture the expression on the young boy's face! It seemed the perfect mixture of awe and terror. Éomer hid a smile before ordering the horns blown to begin the procession. To home, and none too soon! He would not miss this southern heat, though he wondered briefly if he was returning with a significant portion of it in his company.

.

.

Busy with delegating duties and making sure the journey went as smoothly as possible, Éomer saw little of the lady over the next days, though her presence was felt by him almost constantly. His skin seemed to prickle when she was near, and with some skill, he was able to avoid her without seeming rude. He was still feeling irascible from the desert trip, and his peeling skin itched him something awful. His men were staying out of his way, and he felt obliged to give the lady the same advantage, which she did not question. The final day she was to ride with them began only a few miles from her new home, the village Yuldburg. Éomer grimaced for his duty, but rode next to her for those few miles to give her information and advice that she might need in the coming months.

She nodded politely, appearing to listen to his words, but she showed little interest. Éomer felt his annoyance rising. Did this foreign princess really believe that she was capable of bringing a hamlet from the brink of desolation with her southern manners and habits? What could she possibly know of mountains, forests, and winter?

"I have a confession, my lord," Lothíriel said, interrupting his spiel on sources of fresh water. Éomer clenched his teeth in frustration.

"Yes?" The word was clipped.

"My father has taken my dowry," she said, not bringing her eyes from where they focused on the track in front of their horses. "I was exuberant with ideas of bringing wealth to your people and helping them to thrive with naught else but my generosity. But my path will not be so simple," A corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "My father did not want me to come here, as I have already informed you. He thought that by confiscating my money, he could convince me of his own opinion of my fate. All I have are my personal possessions. He even took my late mother's jewels that I was gifted at my wedding." Her tone had turned bitter. "I apologize if I have seem inattentive. I have been mulling the situation over the past days, and was considering solutions even as you were mapping the problems."

So that was the reason for her silence. He felt his anger ebbing, and immediately regretted his short temper. "You have my apologies, my lady," he said. "I should have asked you more of your circumstances before I rambled to you of knowledge that is little use to you, as you already seem well informed."

"You are telling me things of great use," Lothíriel said, meeting his eyes without a trace of guile. "I have studied your land, but that can hardly take precedence over true experience. I should be more responsive to your advice."

"Then we have both made our apologizes, let us come to a truce," he said.

She laughed and agreed, and the trek began a slight uphill slope into the vale. Yuldburg was built at the foot of rising hills that met the great mountains that bordered Gondor. Fields of dead crops, or very few live ones, had already passed them, and the mood of the company had turned sober in the desolation. Orcs had not plundered here, but the hard years of the loss of men and resources were obvious. Most of the food had been given to troops and refugees, and so the villagers here had little to work with for the coming seasons. Éomer already knew it was necessary to send provisions to Yuldburg, but he mentally increased their rations with each step they took.

At the nearing commotion, villagers were leaving their homes to stare curiously. Few knew him, but all bowed as word was passed around of his identity. Most were women and children, dressed in clothes that should have been replaced months before. A few faces looked pale and sunken, but still looked on their king with hope. Not for the first time, Éomer wished his lot had fallen to his more experienced cousin.

The road was built straight through two rows of houses, all with small gardens. At the very end of the village, the master's house was built on the burgeoning slope of the hill. It was a bit larger than the rest of the houses, with the same thatched roof and curtained windows. None of that fancy Gondorian glass here. The party stopped, and Lothíriel hesitated for the smallest moment before dismounting. Éomer followed suit.

"This is wonderful," he heard her say quietly. He had not been meant to hear, but he would have gathered as much anyway, for she touched the doorway to the cottage with obvious tenderness. She turned quickly to him. "You have my promise that I will help these people," she said, her tone hard. "I do hate to see such suffering. I can do this."

Was she trying to convince him, or herself? He did not know. "I am sure you will do your best," he said, patting Firefoot's neck as the stallion began to crop at the overgrown grass that was swarming the house.

"More than my best, I will succeed." Her voice rose slightly in volume and more in rigidity. He balked.

"I did not -" he protested.

She strode away from him, giving Féola quick instructions to take care of her palfrey and to see that her luggage was put in her new home, before she walked straight to the next cottage and knocked loudly on the door. Well, she certainly did not waste any time. Perhaps she would not fail as miserably as Imrahil had suggested, oh so subtly. Why had he such little faith in his daughter, anyways? He had known her the entirety of her life, he should be well aware of her strengths. In any case, Éomer doubted she would need very much supervision from him. She had taken great care of herself during the journey, as a princess raised for such duties, she could probably extend that care to a community with the strong will she had exhibited so often.

"Shall we leave, sire?" Elfhelm had not dismounted, and was fingering his reins with the mildest amount of impatience.

"I believe so," Éomer said, watching the lady disappear into the house at the invitation of the owner, an aged woman with snow-white hair. "There is little else we can do here."

Still, it was with regret they turned towards Edoras. He wanted to be home, truly, but there would be little ease for his spirit there in the near future. How much easier it would be to hide in the woods and let the marshals worry about replenishing crops and increasing the herds of horses and cattle! But he could not run from his responsibilities, as recent as they were, and he took the example of the princess and ran through solutions in his mind on the return journey.

.

.

_Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen._


	3. Love in a Time of Famine

_Some love comes unbidden from the sea…_

 

.

 

.

 

November 3019 TA

 

His éored rode into Dunharrow an hour before sunset, having left Edoras after the noon meal. It was still warm enough during the day to ride without a cloak, but frost could be found clinging to tall grasses long after dawn. As the sun descended, a chill hung in the air. Yuldburg was only another two miles, and they made good time. He wondered what he would find in the desolated little hamlet, Lothíriel’s domain for the past two months.

 

Two months, and since his return from Minas Tirith he had worked tirelessly to bring in the harvest that they could. It was enough to last, but not enough to thrive. The offerings from Yuldburg had filtered into Edoras the previous week, all that could be spared was drawn in a single wagon. Éomer worried for the health of the villagers, for if he knew the Gondorian lady at all, she may not have the experience to know how much grain was needed to sustain a Rohirric village of fifty. And he was too irritated for that fact to admit that he worried most for the lady from the south. The snows were likely to arrive within the week, and Lothíriel had confided to him in passing on their journey there that she had never experienced anything other than a mild winter.

 

And so Éomer was surprised to see the bustle in the town when they rode in. Tables were set and piled with platters and pots of victuals. A floor had been put together in haste, presumably for dancing. A single fiddler and a man with a brass horn were playing a short ditty as the rest of the villagers hurried about, setting more food on the tables and arranging themselves in colorful scarves that he recognized as Harad. Young ladies giggled together in excitement.

 

A farmer caught sight of Éomer, and turned to shout: “The King is here!” Immediately the crowd turned towards him, individuals bowing quickly with little decorum before returning to their tasks. He dismounted, and gave Firefoot his head. The stallion began to devour what was available around the nearest house. His éored followed suit, wasting no time to begin milling about. The giggles of the young women grew louder, and some of the bolder soldiers approached a lucky few. There were few enough unmarried men, and the king’s guard were especially desirable. But Éomer gave this no further thought, for he sought a particular woman.

 

He walked directly to her cottage, and knocked once before entering. She was not in the great room, and a cry of surprise came from behind a half-open door to his right. “I will be out in a moment, Rowyn. Am I so late already? And what is that noise coming from outside, it sounds as if our numbers have doubled.”

 

“They have,” Éomer said, his deep voice betraying the mistaken identity. “It seems your party will not be celebrated alone.”

 

The princess’s figure appeared in her doorway, too schooled to show any astonishment, though she could not have known of his presence. “My lord! I did not know you had designs to visit.”

 

“It was a hasty decision,” he said, taking in her appearance. It was Rohan wear for this night, sturdy and warm. But he could have hardly expected thin silks in this weather. The only sign of her rank were silver clips that held her braided crown of hair in place. “A messenger would not have arrived sooner.”

 

She smiled. “Then your company must join us for our celebrations. We have been blessed in setting a bountiful store for the winter, and so we rejoice for our hard work.”

 

“Bountiful? There was little to be had here.”

 

Lothíriel lifted her chin. "I can explain to you in greater detail, over the meal. But for now, I fear the feast may be delayed for our late appearance.”

 

He held out his arm, and she placed her fingers lightly on it. He twitched, as it occurred to him that they had not touched before. Though there was little contact, barely enough to be polite, he felt pummeled with the sensation of having her near. He had forgotten the feeling of it in their separation. But now he wondered how he could have forgotten it at all.

 

Lothíriel sat at the head of one of the long tables, as she commanded the village, and Éomer was delegated to her right. He did not mind being relieved of presiding, for it was a jolly dinner and he preferred to focus on the joking rather than seeing that everyone was fed. There had been an abundance of food prepared, and with everyone partaking more sparingly than they would have ordinarily for such an event, there was enough for the extra riders. Éomer had always appreciated the graciousness of those that had so little.

 

The lady explained to him proudly while they ate, of how the women and children had been eager to hike high enough to come across several  patches of wild mushrooms, which had grown in profusion during the years that the mountains had been unsafe. They had even come across an abandoned farm not far away, which was overgrown with perennial vegetables and herbs. The men had climbed even higher, to hunt small fowl and had even been successful in nabbing seven fat deer.

 

“Seven!” he nearly shouted in surprise.

 

Lothíriel smiled wryly at him. “I have come to the conclusion that this part of the mountains held far less danger than was supposed. With the threats keeping everybody from straying too far from home, and without your people taking the goods, the animals flourished. It was an unexpected blessing.”

 

“Indeed. But that does not explain the wine, for I know it has been in short supply,” he toasted her with the same.

 

At this her eyes lowered, and she fingered her shawl, almost in embarrassment. “You must not berate me, my lord. I only did what was necessary. These are my people now, and I hold their happiness in the highest regard.”

 

He eyed her in suspicion. “What is your meaning?”

 

“I sold both my horse and my silks. Before the hunting became good, I grew overly anxious for the winter. And so, after gifting a few scarves to the ladies here, I sent a man to Aldburg and the Hornburg with the rest. Your noblewomen snatched the goods like a dying man to water. I take it there can be little color in the Mark at times.” Her face showed utter humility, but also a defiance as she looked at him. “I hope you will not fault me for selling my possessions to save this village. I love it as I have loved none of my homes so far.”

 

Éomer could only stare. Her clear gaze held no deception or untruth, only the earnest of seeking approval. What could he say to convey the deep gratitude he felt? “My dear lady, you…”

 

A howl came up the table. “Dancing! Dancing!”

 

The moment was gone, and benches scraped as everyone stood, excited murmurs passing down the table. He helped the lady to her feet, and was going to ask her for the first dance, but before he could open his mouth, a lad of about thirteen ran up and began to pull her away.

 

“You promised, Lady Lothíriel!” he said.

 

“I did indeed, Earig, the first and the ninth,” she confirmed, favoring the boy with a gracious smile. “And I would give none other the honor.”

 

Éomer sat back down in confusion as they darted through the crowd together. He had lost his lady to a youth! The couple was the first on the floor, and heavy bootsteps and giggles as nearly everyone else joined them rang in his ears. The musicians struck a lively tune, and they were off. A woman came to clear the table of the dirty ware, but Éomer did not take his eyes off of Lothíriel.

 

She was at least a half head taller than the tallest man, and easily a full foot than her partner. But she took it in good grace, allowing herself to be swept along even though the clumsy movements. She laughed easily as she and Earig locked hands and stamped underneath the held arms of the other dancers. There had obviously been a substantial amount of effort on her part to learn the Rohirric dances, and to see this particular lady with people that he cared for in a land that he ruled, Éomer found that he loved her for it.

 

He was completely bewildered at himself. Taken in by a woman bossy enough to run most men from her with tails between their legs...or, well, to run Meduseld as a well-functioning household, he had to admit to himself. Tall enough to frighten the faint of heart away...or tall enough to kiss him. Beautiful enough to stir his attention, and kind enough to hold his heart. Said heart swelled as she leapt high in the air to spare the scrawny lad from lifting her.

 

“Ale, my lord?” Elfhelm sat by him, and pushed a tankard in front of his face. Éomer did not tear his eyes from the lady. His marshal followed his gaze and snorted. “She is a beauty, my lord, if one can find beauty in a raging cyclone.”

 

“I find beauty in a storm,” Éomer said. “I would have her no other way.”

 

“Not even a mite more biddable?” Elfhelm made a fair point. Éomer cared little to have domain over a woman, but it would be nice if her ears were open.

 

“I shall find out if there is elasticity to her character,” He began sipping his ale. “I will have a dance from her.” But his chance was not to come. There were still a few steps left in the first song when her next partner, one of his éored – damn that man! – stood behind her to wait for her hand.

 

“The next one, perhaps, my lord,” Elfhelm said with amusement. Éomer gritted his teeth. He began to move more quickly for the next song, but was still beaten – by two! He sat back down heavily in frustration, throwing back more ale.

 

Luck was not with him. There were no chances for him to sweep her away from her many admirers! Some she danced with twice or more. He fumed, considering the consequences of rudely forcing her into his arms. No, that would not do, not with his princess. She would straighten him out then and there, and that would set him back further. Still, he could not stop from admiring her form, as difficult as it was in the crush of people. With casual attentiveness, she was passed from partner to partner, and Éomer found himself becoming angry at them for treating her as they would another woman. Could they not see how special she was? How her smile shone brighter, her laugh merrier, her gazes more profound and her twirling skirts wider? That every graceful movement her shapely limbs carried betrayed her intelligence and hidden depth? To him she was the superior of all other women, and the joy of such revelation was immediately tempered by the realization that she did not feel so fondly of him. How the highest of hopes could be brought down with so quick a thought!

 

“You may want to steal her away for the final number at least,” Elfhelm chuckled. He had not partaken in any dancing either, far too solemn a man to fraternize with the young ladies, of which there were many, though few had tried to secure his attention.

 

And he was right to remind Éomer of the final dance, for those during celebrations were fraught with insinuation. In the spring, a kiss was expected between the couple. With some of the looks Lothíriel was receiving, Éomer wondered if she might be the victim of such an attempted kiss, even in autumn. It would be a simple matter for a man to take advantage of her ignorance.

 

He stood abruptly, knocking over his empty tankard, and made long strides to the edge of the dance floor. He tapped his foot impatiently, for there were still several steps left in this song. The musicians finished with a flourish, and the dancers clapped.

 

“Final dance, ladies! Choose your partner with care!” the fiddler called. Éomer elbowed his way to the lady, and with a single look from their king, sent the three men that lined up for her next dance slinking away. She only looked at him with raised brows.

 

“I believe I heard it said that the lady chooses her partner,” she said.

 

“Am I such a fright that you would deny me?” Normally he would not say such things, but the new vulnerability in his heart was making him seek compliment or reassurance. He could see the futility of it, but still could not stop the hope growing inside of him.

 

“No, I would still choose you,” she said. Éomer could not help himself wondering at her implication. But she grinned, and said, “I am tired of towering over these men. I do not feel quite safe being tossed, and my neck is beginning to ache from looking down.”

 

So his height was his only apparent advantage. The music began, and Éomer took her around the waist with one hand and held her own in his other. At least he would not have the disadvantage of height. He was barely taller than her, and in fact decided that her lips were the perfect distance and angle from his. _Hmm, perfect indeed._

 

“Do you know of the last dances of the night in the Mark, my lady?” he said to retract his thoughts from kissing.

 

“Is there a significance?” she asked.

 

“There is.”

 

“I have not been told of such. What is it?”

 

Her forthright manner made him grin, and so he paid it back in kind. _Damn the consequences!_ He tried not to let his eagerness show in his words. “If a man and woman share a final dance, it can be considered that they are showing their intentions for one another.”

 

Immediately, irritation set hard lines in her features. “I see,” she said, slowly. “If that is the case…” She withdrew herself from his grasp and turned on her heel before walking away.

 

Éomer had only a moment to register the loss of her presence before she disappeared in the crowd. Not wanting to shout for drawing attention, he cut through the dancers as politely as he could, and when he got off the floor, he could not see Lothíriel anywhere. He opened his mouth to call her name, but Elfhelm caught his eye, and shook his head. He moved to stand near enough to his marshal that their words could be private, and asked gruffly, “Well, what is it?”

 

“Your lady has gone to her home,” Elfhelm said. “It seems that you were the one to set her winds a-

whirling. What was it you did this time, lad?”

 

.

 

.

 

Éomer had only planned a single night in Yuldburg, and so with the intention of riding out before noon, he sought his lady at her home early the next morn.

 

The village was sleepy for it being a full hour past dawn, and he attributed it to the late celebration. But surely Lothíriel would be awake. He pounded on her door mercilessly.

 

“It is Éomer,” he barked through the door. “I must have words with you before I depart.”

 

To his immense surprise, the door was immediately flung open, and Lothíriel stood there, looking as if she had been awake and hard at work for quite some time. “I thought you might come,” she said, without preamble, staring him straight in the eye and not at all disguising her annoyance. “I did want to send further supplies to Edoras, but the mushrooms we were drying took longer than I expected. I anticipated sending them later in the season. But they are prepared, and you are here, and so you will take our surplus with you.” As she finished speaking, she dragged a burlap sack that was stuffed to the brim with pungent dried stems, and shoved them into his arms. He took it automatically, and with his face half covered, had few options besides to wait for further instructions. He could see over the sack, and saw his lady left up two more sacks, and sling them over each of her shoulders.

 

“My lady, please, you mustn’t carry –”

 

“Oh, mustn’t I?” she said in a clipped tone. She set off at a stalking walk towards where his men had made camp, and he followed her. She walked extremely fast for her heavy load, enough to cause offense in a lesser man, and Éomer knew that it was because of him. What a fool he had been!

 

The sacks were dumped unceremoniously in the general center of the tents, and he deposited his own before the lady spoke to him again.

 

“We were most honored by your presence for our most humble gathering,” she said piously, executing a flawless curtsy, but not lowering her intense gaze from his face. “Your men have enchanted our ladies most successfully. I have arranged for the leftover meat pies to be sent back with you for your journey. I wish you safe travel. Good day, my lord King.”

 

No one would ever doubt her nobility. Her Gondorian manners were so stiff, and so regal, that he wondered if she hated him. He managed to return pleasant words to her, and she turned and left with a final nod of her head as soon as it was no longer rude to do so.

 

The other women he had known teased and pretended to give him chase, but he had never cared for those games. This lady was not pretending. She had no taste for games and even less for him.

 

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.

 

Yule approached quickly. It was traditional for the King of the Mark to invite all of his lords to Meduseld for the Yule celebrations. But this year Éomer began to to dread it.

 

He was miserable. The joy of love, quickly discovered and overwhelming his senses, had been pummeled by reality. How could such a noble and exquisite lady have any sort of affection for a man rough as him? As the weeks progressed, he became inattentive in council meetings. At night, he found himself staring at his reflection in an unpolished mirror that hung above the washstand in his bedchamber, the cool water bringing relief to his hot skin. Water droplets dripped from his nose and beard, and he pondered. What kind of man could Lothíriel love? A man like unto her first husband? A Gondorian, like those of her native land? Increasingly, he felt as if his love were a fever. Ravaging waves of desire and affection rode through him, leaving little energy for his duties. He wanted to pine, to mourn, and to wish fervent prayers upon the merciless Valar. His eyes were the only feature that betrayed his agony, he decided, for it was difficult to temper raw emotion. Such desperation caused him to attempt to put her likeness to parchment, but his attempts to convey her brightness and glory were feeble, and wasted paper piled up in a corner of his chamber.

 

Éomer had heard not a single word or received any message from her. He was not expecting love letters, surely, but most of the other town masters wrote to him regularly to keep him abreast of harvests, births, deaths, and any other needful thing. He wondered if she refrained from such out of disgust for his manners.

 

Sending riders to the other lords with verbal invitations for the Yule festivities, he elected instead to send a message to his lady. He penned his words carefully, apologizing for his behavior and expressing hope that she would grace his halls for the holidays. What else could he do? He considered sending a sort of gift with the message, but though a princess, and perhaps because of it, Lothíriel would have very distinct ideas about the usefulness of baubles in a village that was not yet back to normalcy.

 

He agonized over the closing of his letter. The opening had been easy enough: Lady Lothíriel. To sign King of the Riddermark sounded far too impersonal, and King Éomer far too presumptuous. He did not think that Lothíriel would approve of a simple Éomer, for she did seem to have a high regard for propriety. Though, he thought with a grin, her conceit despite her nakedness the first time he saw her had little enough decorum to it. Any other woman would have tried to hide herself.

 

He signed it with just his name, still smiling, and sent it off.

 

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_Raymond E. Feist was quoted at the start of this chapter._

__


	4. Whisper of a Thrill

_Kiss a lover_

_Dance a measure,_

_Find your name_

_And buried treasure..._

_Face your life_

_Its pain,_

_Its pleasure,_

_Leave no path untaken._

_._

_._

**December 3019 TA**

_Yule celebrations lasted twelve days_ , and the guests began to arrive on the first, on which there was to be a feast and dancing to begin the holiday. Éomer did his duties, meandering the great hall to speak to all of his lords, welcoming them and complimenting their ladies. He enjoyed the company of his friends, to be sure, but found himself feeling stilted and false in his actions, for his mind and attention was elsewhere.

His thoughts returned to him when his lady arrived, a gust of wind blowing her into the hall amid a torrent of snowflakes. Many landed on her dark cloak, and were promptly brushed off as she removed her covering. She hid her ruffled manner quite well, drinking the wine offered her in a single draught before treading purposefully into the mess of people and standing as close to the hearth as she could without her dress brushing against the flames. Éomer smiled at that, and approached her after ending his conversation with Erkenbrand. He even sent a short prayer to the Valar that she had forgiven his trespass, and would be disinclined to treat him like the bastard he felt himself to be.

"Has the winter frightened you away yet?" he asked, trying for cheeriness.

"No, it has not," Lothíriel said, rubbing her hands over the heat without taking her eyes from it. "Though the Mark tries her hardest to send me back the south where I am sure she believes I belong, I am staying put."

"Is that so?"

"Certainly. I am not making a run-away trek in this weather, in any case."

He laughed, and saw her eyes twinkle as she looked at him. Was he forgiven, then? It seemed to be so, for she showed nothing but friendliness, and he did not doubt that if she was displeased, she would not conceal it. "The Mark makes up for it in the spring, you may find," he told her.

"I hope so. Then I can return to wearing only one set of undergarments. I feel positively bloated in all of the layers I must wear, else I freeze." How easy it was for her to poke fun at her own oddities! Recognizing this, Éomer knew that this admirable trait was found in few people. He wondered how she came by it. Perhaps her older brothers had a hand. "I must admire your hospitality," she said, pulling him from his thoughts. "I am expert in it, and so I may discern how smoothly things run quite well. Your housekeeper must have such an accumulation of skills and experience."

"She is when I come across her, but I shan't question it, for I have the sense to let her be," Éomer said. "I have no desire to test her nerve by second-guessing what she does! I know the arts of battle, but not of the home."

The lady smiled. "I should think not. I had the unfortunate opportunity to begin keeping the palace at Dol Amroth running from the time that I was twelve years old. Living alone now does have a few advantages, and not being required to see to having sufficient linen for thirty guests at a time is one of them."

"That is young for such a formidable task!" He meant to continue the easy conversation between them, but beholding a sudden influx of sorrow in Lothíriel's countenance made him regret his words at once. But she hastily covered her emotions with a mask of serenity, and replied with no visible hesitation:

"That was my age when my mother died, that is all. It is not so uncommon."

"'Tis not," he said, gravely. "I was of the same age when I lost both of my parents."

"I am sorry," she said.

"And so am I. Was it a raid that took your mother?" Truthfully, Éomer was trying to fill any awkward pauses between them with words. He did not want to her to take a lull as an opportune time to depart.

She looked at him sharply. "No, it was not. She took her own life after the death of my younger brother during childbirth. You must excuse my bluntness, but it bothered me for so long that I simply  _had_  to force myself to be pragmatic about it. Living in Harad was wonderful for quitting the trouble, it was there I began to be able to fall asleep with ease once more."

Well, there was the awkward pause he worried for. She seemed composed speaking of the topic, and he hated to hear any silence…and so he continued. "Surely a single death that must have been unwitnessed would not upset your sleep, my lady?"

A small smile, almost sinister in the partial dark, pulled at her lips. Flames reflected in her eyes, which now seemed black, and he was mesmerized. "Suicide it not entirely uncommon in Dol Amroth," she said, her voice so low he had to bend slightly to hear. The mass of other guests disguised her words well, and provided cover enough for the intimacy of their standing so close together. "I am afraid that the young ladies in the city have had the romantic notion for ages that it is far better to throw themselves from the cliffs after a case of rebuff than to ever love another. When I was thirteen, I came across the victim of such mentality as I was walking on the beach. Since that was the same method that my mother found appropriate only a few months earlier, my peace of mind vanished at that moment."

"You have my sympathy," Éomer said, giving in to the natural impulse to place a hand on her shoulder. "I retain such images from battle, but there they are at least expected." She nodded, and before he could open his mouth again, he was approached by his steward, who promptly informed him that he was needed to perform  _'some stately function'_ , as it was put to him. He took leave of his lady, who looked upon him with a tender smile, and regretted it for the remainder of the day.

.

.

Éomer paid little attention during the Yule dinner. He ate out of habit, but in truth, he was feasting on the sight of his lady, far down the table. She was wearing a blood-red dress stitched with the gold patterns of the Haradrim, with her dark hair drawn up at her neck and woven with a golden ribbon. She was speaking with an ancient member of the king's council and his wife, happily gesturing what were obviously descriptions of her latest homeland, as she caused crumbs of food to scatter with her enthusiastic movements. Her alacrity proved her undisturbed from the dark topics of their earlier conversation. He smiled to himself, trying to disguise it, for Elfhelm, who was sitting next to him, would surely question his reason.

He closed the eating as soon as possible, and announced the dancing to begin after a round of mulled wine, which was toasted to the Great Hunter. Tables were pushed from the center of the hall, and musicians were set up on the king's dias. As was traditional for state occasions, the song of the Riddermark would begin the dancing. There were seven major lords and marshals of the Mark, including the King, and only they and their ladies were to partake in the dance. Often others tried to hide out of the candleglow to attempt the steps, but that had never bothered Éomer, for it was always meant to begin the celebrations with jubilancy and energy anyway.

Himself and two other lords lacked wives, for like him, they had come into their inheritances during the war and remained unmarried. He chose his housekeeper to begin with him, who blushed exceedingly, and to no surprise, the other lords chose the two prettiest unmarried ladies they could find. This included Lothíriel, who accepted the hand of the lord with smiling grace.

In the series of seven dances, each represented an essential member of Rohirric society. Éomer paid little attention to his partners for the first three songs - the king, the hunter, and the crone. His focus was easy to give to another, for his being tall, and Lothíriel nearly matching his height, he simply looked over the heads of the other dancers to watch her as he and the ladies he danced with wove between other couples. Between each song, the musicians paused and allowed time for the men to move down the line before striking into the next. He found the king's song boring and slow, for it was the longest of the group. The hunter's foray was of a faster tempo, and was done with lighter steps that were not to make a sound. Many of the heavier men always found this difficult, and the bursts of laughter when one stumbled over his feet nearly broke the atmosphere. Éomer was appropriately paired with the ancient matron of the West Emnet for the number that represented the old crone. It was a rather sad piece, for the long years without a husband and the pain of grandchildren living far away. The lady chattered at him quietly, remarking politely on the feast and criticizing his lack of heir. She was a perfect match for the song, and he completely ignored her.

He would be lying if he had said he had not particularly arranged himself in the line to be with Lothíriel for the fourth dance. This piece was was of lovers, of the newly wedded, and of the betrothed. The movements were longing and full of barely repressed affection. His stomach flipped as soon as as their fingers touched, and a small smile formed on her face as she met his eyes. "I hope you will not try anything unsavory this time, my lord," she said quietly.

"I did nothing of the sort in that instance to which you are referring," he said, pulling her as close as he dared. "I was merely warning you. I would hate to see your virtue so compromised by an enterprising youth."

Miraculously, she laughed. "If any did, I would not hesitate to make my displeasure known. In any case, I should not have reacted to you so violently. I apologize, and I admit that I should have done so sooner."

Their hands clasped, one pair above their heads and one held across their waists, and they turned in accordance to the music. He found himself mesmerized by her eyes which darkened in the candlelight, and which were smiling unabashedly into his own. Strangely, he felt that he did not need to say anything, or if he did, the moment would be lost. So he relaxed, and enjoyed the touch of his lady's hands on his, the pleasant melody in his ears, and the fairness of her features in his gaze. She was a splendid dancer, confirmed now that he held her in his arms, and he would not have expected anything different. The daughter of his sworn-father and Gondorian prince could hardly be unaccomplished, but he wondered idly if there were any deficiencies in her abilities. When the song ended, Éomer hesitated for a moment, and then adamantly decided  _not_  to move down the line.

The pace picked up considerably, despite the the momentary confusion as Éomer did not follow the prescribed traditions and men bumped into each other as they sought a partner. Lothíriel took it in good humor, and laughed as they began to stamp underneath a bridge of the hands of the other dancers. The dance of children - wild and fast. The crowd was growing louder, clapping in time with the music.

There was no rest before the next dance, representing motherhood and increasing in volume. He held Lothíriel around her waist and lifted her from behind, as she kicked a leg high in the air, flaring out her skirt like a fan of fire. Multiple lifts, though the song was short, and the last piece began directly.

For the Riders and warriors, the previous chaos multiplied. The thundering hoofbeats through flat plains were made with even heavier stomping, which seemed like they would take the thatched roof from its perch on the hall. They twirled and turned through the clapping watchers, faster and faster and the music crescendoed. Whoops echoed in his ears, nearly deafening him. Lothíriel's mouth was open in presumed gales of laughter, but he could not hear her.

It was over; a speedy bow from the men and curtsey from the women. Then there was applause for the musicians, but Éomer did not take his eyes from Lothíriel. He did not want to lose her to any other man that night. But he was not to get his wish, for her hand was asked for immediately by Erkenbrand, and without a glance to Éomer's jealous gaze, she left his side. And alas, the rest of the evening was thus, and only half a dance with his lady to retain in his memory. He dulled the ache of seeing her with other men by consuming several cups of mead, danced with no other, and retired to his bed as soon as the festivities ended.

.

.

Éomer couldn't sleep. Instead of making him drowsy, the mead he had drunk alerted his senses and made him jittery. He tossed and turned in his bed for hours before he finally gave into his frustration and left his chambers, in search of food or company – anything, really. He paced the dark corridors at a brisk pace, stopping only briefly in the abandoned kitchens for a snack, a pilfered pumpkin tart. He nibbled at it as he continued his trek, passing through the great Hall in an attempt to walk himself into exhaustion. Expecting it to be empty after the feast, he was considerably surprised to see the very reason for his jumbled thoughts in the very room.

Lothíriel was squatting by the great hearth, stabbing at it with a poker. Éomer stared at her. The dull light from the dying fire lit her face, and she seemed to be, by all accounts, discouraged. And slightly cold – with her opposite arm she rubbed herself as if trying to warm herself even though she wore a cloak. He did not stir until she spoke.

"You might join me, if you wish," her voice echoed thinly. "If it is not too inappropriate."

He moved, and crouched across the hearth so that they were at the same line of vision. "I must confess, I thought I would be the only one awake at this hour," he said.

"I wish I was not awake," she replied. "But the fire went out in my room, and I woke and thought I was on the precipice of death. The children in Yuldburg made fun of me, telling me stories of frozen bodies found in the mountain, seeking to terrify me, and it worked. I am so very paranoid. And this was the only source of heat that I have found."

"Your fire went out?" Éomer was surprised. "But why did you not relight it? The supplies to do so are always kept at hand."

Lothíriel was silent for a moment, not taking her eyes from the crackling wood. "I do not know how," she said in a soft voice. "I went to the kitchen to search out a servant for help, but there were none. I have kept the fire burning diligently in my home these past months, and have not needed to relit it myself."

He smiled at her, for she bore her vulnerabilities very visibly. There was honor in that, he supposed, though not a type he wished for himself. "I will assist you, my lady," he offered.

She met his eyes then, and gave him a smile that warmed him thoroughly. "I would appreciate that very much," she said. "I would like to sleep a bit longer before the day begins, I think."

Éomer stood and held out his hand to help her stand, which she took after brushing her skirts of flecks of ash. She did not touch him longer than needful, and the hope that burned in him for speaking to her disappeared at her reserved manner.

Lothíriel sat on her bed and waited while he coaxed the warm flames into existence. It did not take him more than a few moments, but Éomer took his time to sear the image in his memory. Flashes of white nightgown spilled from the lady's cloak, and she swung her feet back and forth, for they did not meet the floor from the tall bed. Her braided hair hung in a plait over one shoulder, but it was coming loose around her face, which was very becoming. He could smell her, as her sweet scent penetrated the room. He wondered idly how long he could keep it from being cleaned after her departure. He sighed at the thought, and stood and brushed his hands off, revealing the cheery flames to the lady.  _His lady._

"I hope it is to your satisfaction," he said, inclining his head towards her in a formal manner. "You truly only have to ask for your needs to be seen to. If you would like a servant to take care of your fire tomorrow night, I will arrange it." He caught his breath at the expression on her face. She had been gloomy before, but now agony lined her face, and she bit her lip.

"My lord…"

He waited, expectantly.

"I would have one favor to ask," she whispered, and cast her eyes to the floor. "But I am afraid to do so, for it is…audacious and inappropriate to the highest degree. I should be shamed for the very thought."

"You will not be shamed for asking," Éomer said. "Please. I will grant it, if I can."

"I will even soften it by supplicating for my greatest wish as a Yule gift. I am in torment, my lord," she took a deep breath and dragged up her eyes to meet his. "I am lonely. I was once married, and shared body and bed with a man, and now that I live alone my isolation is complete. It wears on my soul. I do wish to overstep any proprieties, but I ask you…only for a kiss, if you will grant it."

A kiss? He would happily grant that! He schooled his eagerness into a mask of calm generosity. "My lady, it would be my pleasure."

Lothíriel stood and moved next to him, her slate eyes boring into his own with an intensity he was unfamiliar with. He stood, entranced, and she leaned forward to brush her lips against his. He could not help himself, after she pulled away, from placing his hands on either side of her face to cease her retreat. "Surely that was not all," he said. "I could not leave you with such...pitiful a kiss."

The corners of her lips rose. "I was hoping you would say something of that ilk, my lord."

Éomer bent his head and kissed her, far more thoroughly this time, and she reacted eagerly. He thought, belatedly, that her skill far surpassed him in this field. She knew exactly how to move her mouth against his to send torrents of heat down his body and into his belly. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her fingers in his hair before moaning deep in her throat. He almost lost control then, for the lady of his choosing to be melting in his arms so willingly, and in a dark bedchamber.  _Keep a hold of yourself, man_ , he told himself sternly. But he was too late in that thought, for Lothíriel's hands were brushing along the length of his body, and his desire heightened. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist like a vice, not wanting to let her go. She pulled away from his briefly, and he feasted his eyes on her pink lips and flushed cheeks. No, he definitely did not want to let her go.

"I…" she swallowed. "I want…we should not…"

"Which is it?" Éomer asked before nuzzling into her neck, kissing her skin slowly, savoring the taste. "What you want or what we should not do? This is your bedchamber, my sweet, and you shall be the ruler of it."

"Do not say that," Lothíriel said in a low voice. "For I am sure to choose wrongly."

"Then choose, and I shall comply with the opposite of what you command."

She lifted his head gently and held it close to her own. His blood was already pounding, but at the look on her face, his heart began to respond in kind. "I choose for you to leave," she said, smiling.

He returned the smile before she crushed her lips to his once more, her desperation very clear. His resolve crumbled in the onslaught of mighty passion. He clasped one arm around her waist to hold her tightly, and cradled her head in the other before tipping her onto the bed, their bodies never parting. He had to admire her fortitude, he thought to himself before his reason fled, for she lost no breath from his weight upon her.

She moaned softly in her throat as he caressed her, enjoying the feeling of her soft body under his. Indeed, she did not appear reserved in the slightest, moving her limbs without hesitation to connect their bodies all the better. She was grabbing him desperately, and he could have winced at her merciless grip on his shoulders, but his attention was on her lips, her tongue, her hips, her taste...

All at once Lothíriel made a strangled noise, not in the slightest related her noises of pleasure, and she froze under his touch. So it was over, their brief foray into the divine physical pleasures that Éomer was so unfamiliar with. He removed himself from his position with gentleness, and tried to look his lady in the eye, her eyes were cast down, and her cheeks red.

"I am sorry," she said, getting to her feet. "So very sorry. I should not have beseeched you such, and now I fear I have given you a most unfavorable view of my character. Please leave."

Her words embarrassed him as well, and he gave her a short bow before turning to leave. He would have said something to comfort her, but she turned her back to him, her head bowed and buried in her hands. His stomach dropped at the sight of her anguish, but he did her bidding.

Éomer still found that rest escaped him once he laid in his bed once more. He had felt raised up by kissing her, for it seemed her body belonged with his, and their hearts were meant to be one. But now he was so, so low, and he wondered if he could possibly do anything to convince her of his devotion, and for her to return it.

.

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_Neil Gaiman is responsible for the beautiful poem that started this chapter._


	5. Slip Into Spring

_Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song._

_._

_._

**April 3020 TA**

_Éomer stepped from his tent at dawn_. They had arrived at Yuldburg long after sundown, due to a thunderstorm delaying their journey, and had made camp as quietly as possible. The cottages had already been dark and quiet, for it was spring - and spring meant work. None of the villagers would appreciate being woken in the middle of the night by the clamoring of horses and men when they had to be up before dawn to begin the day. And so he was not the first to greet the sun - but, rather embarrassingly, one of the last.

A few workers hailed him as he strode through the field, but most were too intent on their tasks. The few men left to the village were completing the plowing for most of the fields, and each woman would be planting seeds on her own property. Éomer appreciated this service, for there was simply not enough strength in the women to maintain their families through the man's work, regular housekeeping, and nurturing the children. The situation was the same across the Mark.

Satisfied with the work being done and the service rendered, he continued his trek to find his lady.

He had missed her, during the late winter. But not only her kisses and sweet body - her conscientious words and ready wit. And her kindness in continually forgiving his shortcomings! She was an enjoyable companion, and he hoped to consider her a friend, one of the few that treated him as an equal. He had waited long to seek her company; for propriety and fear of spooking the widowed lady he kept away from Yuldburg at the cost of his happiness. How he had longed for her!

He paused when he saw her, choosing to delay his introduction to drink in the sight of her. She was tilling energetically, hefting the heavy pick above her head and slamming it into the ground to dislodge rocks with the movements of an activity recently learned but obviously practiced. Her hair was coming loose from its braid, and even in her rough woolen dress, she was still so evidently noble and extremely beautiful.

Éomer cried her name, and she turned to look at him mid-thrust, pausing as she recognized him. She let her arms drop, and nodded her head respectfully towards him before shielding her eyes from the golden sunrise as he approached. "I apologize for my state, my lord," she said, out of breath. "Every hand is needed to get the crops planted," she looked at him shrewdly. "If that is indeed why you are come; I am not shirking my commitment to this land."

"I accused you of no such thing," he assured her. "Indeed, the thought did not even cross my mind. I often visit the villages. I enjoy the company of my people and I firmly believe that all should know their king."

She smiled at his words, and he found himself staring at her mouth, immediately berating himself for his greed. He had sworn to himself he would only pursue her if she showed interest. He could not consider their Yule kiss true interest, for she had desired it out of loneliness, not out of any affection for him. He drew a breath, and tried to return his foggy thoughts to their conversation, dragging his gaze away from her lips. Her smile had turned almost feral, and then he knew that she was aware of the direction his thoughts had taken. Blood rushed to his face, but he was pleased to she that she was not without shame, either. Pink flushed through her already sweaty cheeks. Béma, he was long gone!

"I am happy to see you, my lord," Lothíriel said, easily covering her discomposure. "We have had little in the way of outside company during the snows. And truthfully, I am pleased to converse in my own tongue again."

"While my éored is in residence, I would like to offer their services for spring planting," Éomer said, not trusting himself to continue a conversation about her tongue. "We have been lending help across the Mark as often as we are able."

The lady's face brightened more. "We would be very grateful for any help!" she said. "I do trust in the strength of women, but we have been unused to such strain. Men have the luxury of years of farming to gain their skills and fortitude - and this will be one of our first!"

Éomer smiled, suppressing the urge to finger the stray hairs that flitted in her face. The morning light gave the strands a red hue, making her look as if she wore a crown of fire. "We normally arrange for all to rest while we plow," he said, trying to be casual. "Have a holiday of sorts."

Her eyes crinkled at the edges as her smile grew. "I believe that we could surrender the fields to you."

.

.

What he had not told her was of his intention to leave the work to his men and to spend his day in her company. This accounted to her astonishment when he approached her and requested that they speak privately, as the women of the village surrendered their plows and hoes to the soldiers around them.

"Will you not join them?" she asked, indicating the retreating men.

"Certainly not," he said, faking indignation to receive the reward of a snigger from his lady. "There must always be one to stay behind, to confer with the lord or lady of the town to discuss the crops and such. I hope you will not be adverse for losing your day of comfort."

Her eyes strayed across the houses, where there were already windows thrown open and dust was rising from the sweeping. She pursed her lips. "I do not think I will," she said. "I am growing hot in the sun, and being in a stuffy house holds no appeal for me. Dust makes me sneeze."

"Then perhaps you might show me your mushroom groves that you told me about last harvest."

"I would like that," she said before turning thoughtful. "It is quite a journey; I will bring us refreshment, if you consent to a short delay."

"I shall surely."

.

.

Lothíriel had not been exaggerating when she said it was a journey. Though accustomed to long rides and swordfighting, nothing had prepared him for a steep climb through brambles and rocks. The lady set a pace that grew harder to match as his legs began to burn with exertion. At least there were trees overhead - the thought of such exercise in the light of the sun, the only way the trek could be more uncomfortable, kept Éomer's spirits from crumbling. He had grown softer, the last months. As if hearing his thoughts, the lady turned to tell him,

"We are almost there."

He managed a feeble smile before returning his focus to avoiding a misstep as branches snapped under his boots. He adjusted the pack on his shoulder, which he had gallantly volunteered to carry. How was he to know that a single blanket, two wrapped cold meat pies and a few skins of drink would be so heavy? Dew droplets hidden under leaves, clearly unaware that it was already mid-morning, were dripping onto his neck. It was a cooling relief onto his aching muscles, but made him itch.

Lothíriel stopped as they arrived at the edge of a meadow. Later in the year, it would surely be green and lush, but in this the early spring in the high mountains, the grasses were brown and matted from months of heavy snow. "Here is our checkpoint," she informed him. "The mushrooms grow on the north side of this glade, in the woods," she smiled, gazing across the landscape, almost wistfully. "The children would play here after they were finished with their allotments. This is a pleasant place, you will find, but the fungus is not ripe for picking," she cast him a look. "It will be a few weeks before we have a crop. But you wished to see this place."

Her tone almost sounded vexed, and Éomer wondered if she regretted taking him up the mountain now that the exercise had been done. She did not seem winded, and had not shown any reluctance at the onset. "I am thirsty," she announced. "Refreshment is in order, if you are willing." She spread a horsehair blanket in the sun, refusing his offer of help, and set the bag of supplies she had brought on it, setting herself down daintily and tucking her feet under her skirt. "Would you prefer water or wine, my lord?" she asked.

"Water first," Éomer said. "Then wine."

She gave to him a skin, and he drank deeply, turning his face to the breeze to cool the sweat from his face. Bird calls echoed through the trees, and he flicked a beetle from climbing up his trousers. This was a peaceful place, devoid of the rumblings of a town and stink of people living in close quarters. Feeling Lothíriel's presence near to him sunk a deep tranquility into his soul, and caused him to completely disregard his purpose of speaking to her of economic and administrative matters. She had torn up some dead grass and was now tying it together in intricate knots. He watched her fingers move deftly, admiring their grace and surety, and unwilling to break the easy silence between them.

"I am fortunate it is early enough spring that the stalks are still damp," the lady commented, not looking up from her task.

"Indeed," Éomer said, stretching his legs out lazily and resting his weight on his hands behind him. "What else might keep you so busy?"

She looked at him through her dark lashes, her pursed lips betraying her distaste at his comment before she spoke again. "When I spoke of you with my brothers, my lord, they painted a picture of a warrior cold and unbendable man. I am surprised to find that such teasing is not at all beneath you, as it should be."

"You forget, my lady, that I have a sister as well. Before I was a warrior, I was an elder brother, and none else in this world have perfected the art of making fun."

She smiled at that. "I can confirm that notion. It took me many years to finally dissuade my brothers from taking advantage of me."

"How did you succeed?"

"I pretended not to care," she said, placing the woven grass in front of her before folding her hands neatly in her lap. "I did not cry in front of them, I did not become angry and lash out. I acted as though I was the mature one. And so they grew to believe that their antics did not affect me, and they ceased."

"That must have been difficult, my lady. I admire that you succeeded - even I sometimes cannot hold my temper from flaring at Amrothos," Éomer said.

"Amrothos may bring out the worst in all that he holds dear," she said, tone bland. "When we were younger he had a friend that lived at our palace, from Near Harad. He made the mistake of setting rats to nibbling on the boy's holy prayer rug. It was meant to be a joke but got out of hand, and it effectively ended that friendship, as well as the ties between Dol Amroth and the boy's home tribe."

Éomer thought about this for a moment. "Were there many such friendships between your family and the Haradrim?" he asked.

Lothíriel frowned. "A few, and they were terse, now that I think upon it. We wanted to avoid war, but it was always inevitable. The Harad emperor has control over all his lords, and can easily force them to his will. _He_ certainly had no wish for peace, as he was aligned with Sauron for a decade or more."

It came from his mouth before he could stop it, for his curiosity reigned over his sense. "Was your marriage an attempt to circumvent that?"

Her voice turned quiet. "Indeed. Barul was a peace-loving man, but in the end the Emperor still controlled him. He did not want to fight." She was looking intently at the blanket, where she was tugging on a few strands that stuck out.

"Did you love him?"

Her gaze turned to him sharply, attempting to discern his purpose of questioning. Éomer kept strict control over his features so not to show anything other than polite interest. Though this probably was not a proper question to pose to a lady to whom he was unrelated.

But she relented, nonetheless. "I cared for him, but it was not a fervent love. He was kind and attentive, and occasionally there were brief flashes of passion, but Laitka's influence kept our relationship from growing. First wives do have authority by law, and he was rather cowed by her."

"Why did you marry him, if you knew he already had a wife?"

"For Gondor, of course," she looked at him as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Barul suggested it to Father, who was rather against it, but in the end I was allowed to choose. I was only sixteen, and I wanted to see more than the palace walls. Besides, I had a very strong sense of duty, and I did want to do my part in preventing hostilities," At this she clenched her jaw. "But my sense of duty has lessened somewhat. Before I left, my father attempted to arrange a match between myself and the new lord of Lebennon."

This was new to Éomer. "What did you say?" he asked.

"I refused, of course. I believe my father regrets my marrying so young and to a man so distant from my home, and now he seeks to keep me near, in a relationship more pleasing by conventional standards. We had a small row over it," she grinned at him suddenly. "I told him that whether I marry a farmer or a king, the choice will be on me and my conscience alone."

An all too familiar spark of hope fluttered in him. What did she mean, exactly, to suggest marrying a king? He was the only unmarried king he knew of. Was there any meaning at all, or was it just a figure of speech? He had always considered his Westron to be perfectly fluent, but now he doubted himself.

She was still speaking, "After all, other widows are allowed their independence. Mine certainly will not be taken from me because of the duties I have inherited."

"Very wise," he murmured. "Though I imagine that Imrahil would not be entirely pleased to have a farmer as a son-in-law."

"He would have to adjust," Lothíriel said. "Any man I love should be welcomed into my family without qualms. In addition, being a farmer's wife hold more charm to me now than being queen. I cannot comprehend the satisfaction that may come from sitting in a room for all hours of a day and gossiping. It was base enough in a tent!" Several of the words that had occurred in this conversation were making Éomer both dizzy and confused. He tried to ignore it, but his distress did not go unnoticed. She was looking at him, with a wondering expression on her face. "Have I made you uncomfortable?" she asked. "I am afraid I am willing to discuss nearly anything with anyone, it is undoubtedly my biggest fault. I do not mean to make you squirm."

If only she knew why he squirmed! "No harm done," he assured her. It was only a little lie.

She smiled. "Perhaps I blabber more when I myself am uncomfortable. You have a great ability, my lord, to cause me to lose my composure."

"Then you hide it well, for you always seem collected to me," he said.

"I shall put your own composure to the test, and prove to you my outspokenness," she said, and straightened her back, looking him in the eye. He steeled himself for what would come next, for she seemed to be preparing a great announcement. "I am uncomfortable in your presence, my lord, not because I am afraid of you or dislike your character, but because of our actions at Yule. What happened was, of course, entirely on my shoulders as I coerced you into doing my bidding. But it remains entirely inappropriate. I am also ill at ease because I perceive that your thoughts often stray there. It is easy enough to discern, for my thoughts dwell there also."

Outspoken indeed! He could have laughed in relief. "You are not wrong, my lady," he said. "I do not regret what we did, but I worry for any discomfort that may grow between us."

"Then let us mend it," Lothíriel declared. "I shall not let our past interfere with the companionable relationship that we now share. We are friends, and nothing shall destroy it."

Éomer agreed and repeated her words, but not without regret. A long-lasting friendship was not all he wanted from his lady. A home, children, a fulfilling life…

"But perhaps," her voice had grown low, drawing him from his wool-gathering, and a small smile remained on her features. "The best way to ensure such a pact is to seal it."

"You are most correct, my lady," he said, beginning to perceive the direction of her thoughts in her twinkling eyes. "There is always a sealing promise to such treaties."

"I do not want to spill my blood over it," she said.

"Nor I. Nor should any animal be blood-sacrificed for so...insignificant an agreement, at least from the perspective of nations."

"Something small."

"Indeed." He waited for her to say it.

She continued. "Perhaps sentimental?"

"I should think so."

"A handshake…?" She drew out the words. She was not going to break easily!

"No, far too impersonal," he said. "If we are to be friends, a more intimate gesture would be appropriate."

"An oath?"

"Certainly not. Too serious."

She gave him a sly look. "What would you suggest, my lord?"

Éomer grinned, and gave in. "A kiss, my lady, would seal our friendship perfectly."

"Hmm, yes, I agree. I should have …" He did not let her finish, effortlessly catching her lips with his as he bent over her. She responded zealously, tilting her head back to give him better access, which he took full advantage of, tasting her mouth for all he was worth, wanting to remember…

Lothíriel pulled from him, all too soon, and stood, shaking out her skirts nonchalantly. Éomer schooled his feelings as she rose, but he knew his flushed cheeks gave his arousal away. "I am finding it quite hot now that it is past noon, do you feel similarly, my lord?" she asked.

"Yes, I am."

"I will show you a great secret, if you can keep it," she said as she stared at him, still prostrated on the ground.

He raised his eyebrows. "Do I have to make a solemn oath to satisfy you?"

"You may have another kiss to seal this promise," she said, and then drew her next words out slowly. "If...you can keep up with my pace."

He was halfway to his feet as he understood her meaning, but she was already out of the glade, running directly east. Three steps of his own, and he bowled over as his lower leg cramped. Cussing every word he could think of in every language he knew, he pulled himself up laboriously, hunched over like an old woman with pain shooting up his side. But he was not going to yield so easily!

Lothíriel's path was easy enough to follow, though her movements were out of range of his hearing, for the trek was worn with use. It was a short distance of stumbling before he arrived at a mountain stream. He had not even been aware that they was one in these parts, but he forgot his ignorance to see the lady already stripped to her corset and petticoat, and clearly waiting for him.

"The water here is very refreshing!" Without a second glance at him, she climbed up a tall rock, and dove straight into the clear water. He started, for what insane person would seek a swim in a stream freshly melted from snow and ice!

"Are you mad?" he hollered when she surfaced.

But she only laughed. "Join me, my lord, and prove to me your pluckiness!"

There, now his hands were tied. He sighed briefly before undressing himself, leaving only his thin under-leggings to cover his nakedness. He approached the water woefully, grimacing as he stuck a single toe into the icy water. It was a cold as he feared. His lady, having swam a few widths of the stream during his delay, came to him.

"Well?" she asked, looking up at him. Water dripped from her eyelashes, and sparkled in the sun. With the shining water and rosy cheeks from the chill, she was positively radiant. Éomer found it difficult to force words from his mouth.

"Perhaps I am not as plucky as I previously thought," he managed.

A hand shot from the water, and frozen fingers wrapped around his bare ankle. "It is not so bad when your whole body is wet," she said, all innocence. "Come!" A quick tug sent him reeling slightly. He cursed again, and taking a deep breath, did as his lady had bidden him.

He fell in, not as graceful as her entrance, but flailing as he regretted his actions immediately. But she had been right - it was not _as_ cold when he was submerged. His head broke the surface, sputtering water from his mouth, and exclaimed, "Could this not have been done in the summer, woman?!"

She laughed. "Anyone can swim in the summer. It is the brave in heart that swim in winter waters!"

Éomer shook his head, drawing his hair back in a knot. Lothíriel began to swim again, perfectly executed strokes that propelled her efficiently up the stream, and flipping in the water, back towards him. So there were advantages, he thought to himself. Her white undergarments left little enough to his imagination, and he found it difficult to keep his eyes on her face. _Hmmm_.

"Do you race?" she asked, unaware of the course of his thoughts.

"Only on horseback, my lady. I fear you would be the easy winner here, for I have never had the advantage of living by the sea."

"That is unfortunate," she said, floating on her back and closing her eyes in the glare of the sun. "Sometimes I am in need of a proper competition."

"Perhaps we should return," he said. "We have been gone long enough." What he did not admit was that he hated to be wet, or cold, and was ready for a generous amount of wine, or perhaps something stronger.

She sighed. "You are likely to be right."

They walked together back down the mountain, carrying their outer clothes to allow the wet ones to dry. In this easy friendship, Éomer found it simple to hold her hand, and it was only natural for her to kiss him on the cheek when he left her at the door of her cottage, and so it was no surprise he bounded back to his camp with a grin for all whom he passed and skips in his step in all the hope and satisfaction of the perceived return of affection.

.

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_The quotation at the beginning of this chapter is attributed to Plato, with whom I have a love-hate relationship. And again, thank you to my beta, Valkyrie, who is seriously so awesome._


	6. Lift the Wings

_Lift the wings that carry me away from here, fill the sail that breaks the line to home. But when I'm miles and miles apart from you; I'm beside you when I think of you, my darling..._

.

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**July 3020 TA**

_They left before first light._ Éomer had intended to sojourn in Edoras an extra day, but found that the business he had was easily dealt with, and apart from that, he was eager to make his trek to Yuldburg. Éothain accompanied him this time with a half éored, as Elfhelm had made clear his exhaustion of 'chasing a princess through the mountains,' as he had put it. Éomer had been hard pressed to keep his temper, but for the sake of avoiding gossip, gave the marshal a gritty smile and permission to stay behind.

He pushed the pace, and although still feeling the effects of a hard tour through the Westfold, he was impatient to reach their destination. He wondered, as they rode, what Lothíriel would be doing. What would she say? Would she want to kiss him again? And the question that kept him awake during lonely nights...did she return his love? The anxiety of such a notion, whether it be true or not, flipped his stomach. For the first time, he knew that he had found a woman worthy to be a queen. And as further recommendation, she held his heart in her hands, though said hands as often held a hoe or basket of mushrooms. He could appreciate her strength, and begrudged her accomplishments none. Well, perhaps a little.

Rolling plains disappeared under pounding hoofbeats. Adrenaline began to set in, for the sound of galloping horses stirred Éomer's blood like little else could. Nervous excitement ran up his spine. He was clenching the reins in his hands, and he tried to keep them slack else Firefoot become distressed at his master's agitation.

As the curved vale appeared ahead of them, a pair of riders rose from the golden grasses. These riders were running their horses towards them, and it was only a matter of moments before they could be identified. Éomer felt that he could recognize his lady anywhere all.

Lothíriel's form was tall, and she rode astride a dark bay gelding, hair loose in the wind. Her companion was a young woman Éomer recognized from Yuldburg, a flirt that more than one of his soldiers had mentioned in passing. He could not remember her name, but he cared little, for his attention was elsewhere. Specifically, it was heading straight towards him. The ladies pulled in their horses, and as the éored slowed down at Éomer's order, the energetic horses pranced in front of himself and Éothain.

"Hail, Éomer king," the young woman said.

"Hail, my lord," Lothíriel inclined her head slightly, and met his eyes with a mixture of mirth and challenge. What could she possibly be trying to indicate?

"Greetings, Lady Lothíriel," Éomer replied correctly. "I am glad you find you in good spirits," At her expectant look, he cleared his throat. "Ah, this is Éothain, a great friend and member of my éored."

"It is a privilege to finally meet you, my lady," Éothain said, giving her proud form all the respect he could from the back of a horse. "Éomer King has told us much about your hard work in these parts. He did not say that your beauty matched your accomplishments." Éomer saw her lips press in a thin line to keep from grinning, as he felt blood rush to his face. Lothíriel's companion hid a giggle behind her hand.

"I thank you for your compliment," Lothíriel said. "Though I imagine your king does not appreciate your making bare his slight. This is my great friend, Rowyn." She gestured towards the woman. Rowyn had golden curls that bounced around her face, which was illuminated with a lively smile and rosy cheeks, and she responded to their greetings with the enthusiasm of youth.

"We were taking a break from pulling weeds," Lothíriel informed them. "I had the opportunity of purchasing a new horse from a herdsman that comes through Dunharrow in the spring," She patted the bay's neck. "Chaser has an incredible amount of energy, I have to gallop him near every day." In response, the gelding shifted his footing, making clear that he was not yet finished with his exercising.

Rowyn was looking from Éothain to Éomer and then to Lothíriel. A smile spreading, she said, "My Greymane is winded, I think she might prefer a slower pace back home. If you would like to keep going, Lothíriel, I can stay with the éored. Assuming, of course," she shot her king a look. "That you are coming to Yuldburg."

"Indeed, that is our destination," he said.

"I think I will continue, Rowyn," Lothíriel decided. "A turn past Watchbeam Hill and I will be straight behind."

"Firefoot is itching for a run," Éomer said quickly. Firefoot had been chomping lazily on the available grass, and only snorted when his master gave him a nudge. Lothíriel smiled at that, as if she saw through his pretense, which she was likely to. He felt as if he was bared naked in front of her, and she could see straight through any of his attempts to hide his own shortcomings.

"Very well then," she said. "Let us be off."

The first several minutes were spent at too high a speed for conversation. A foursome of guards rode behind them, quickly falling behind, for Chaser was a speedy fellow. Lothíriel had an immaculate taste in horseflesh, Éomer learned. The gelding had smooth, clean lines, and an even pace. Though Firefoot would undoubtedly win over a large distance, the stallion was having trouble keeping up. Éomer did not mind, for he could watch the lady's form from behind, which he enjoyed very much. Finally she began to slow her pace, and Éomer caught up with her.

"Rowyn is a dear, but she has certain ideas of my status," the lady said without preamble. "She seems to believe that I should ride with kings, not farmers. That is why she was so intent on you and I together."

"She cannot be too convinced," he replied. "For she retains her friendship with you, and I wager that she is a farmer's daughter. Unless Yuldburg has other occupations to offer."

Lothíriel laughed. "I always appreciate an unbiased view. Though I do have a grievance to take up with you."

"And what is that?"

"You did not tell Éothain that I was beautiful!"

He snorted at her expression of faux indignance. "In all honesty, my lady, I did not take you to be a woman of vanity. I was unaware that I would have to reassure you of your attributes."

"All women are vain," she corrected, and then shot him a conspiring look. "And to spare you future trouble, I shall tell you a secret of my sex. It does not matter from whom the compliment comes, or in what context, but all women want to hear that they are beautiful. It is especially to be gratified to hear such from the king," she grinned. "But since the king does not say so, I shall make do with his friend, and lose an ounce of esteem for my own looks."

"Then you have my sincerest apologies, for I have seen few women who may match you for beauty, and near none for strength of will," Éomer said this with all honesty, but tried to keep his feelings from becoming transparent. "I give you nothing but the truth. I fear Éothain was teasing me, for sometimes I struggle to speak of anything besides you, Lothíriel."

A brief expression of discomfort and surprise flashed on her face. He wondered if he should have refrained from using her name, for she had never invited him to do so. "That is compliment indeed," she mused, half to herself. "So thorough that I may doubt the validity."

"I would not -"

"Peace!" She held up a hand, and he realized she was laughing. "I have tormented you enough, and I apologize for it. I should not antagonize you so. It is terribly easy, and so I partake when I should refrain."

The guards were catching up now, and Éomer clenched his jaw in annoyance. He wanted to speak to her of his feelings, of his love and his desire, but this was apparently not the right time. What relief it would bring! And in her response he would find joy in reciprocity, or a cold finality in rejection. Even then he would be able to recover his own usefulness, for though it was never spoken of in his presence, he knew his riders, marshals, and housekeeper alike agreed on his moon-eyed behavior. A queen would be fine recompense for the last months of heartache, but this lady's love was not guaranteed, nor would it come swiftly, if it was to come at all. He felt damned for it.

They trotted around the hill, and on the return journey towards the vale, Éomer broke the silence. "How fare things in Yuldburg?" he asked.

A shadow passed the lady's face. "Well enough," she said. "The crops are growing nicely, and we are still reaping from the mountains, albeit little at a time."

"And what is the problem?"

"I said nothing of a problem, my lord."

Éomer could not help grinning at her confusion. "You do not hide your emotions well."

This earned him a small smile, before she said, "About a month ago a small boy drowned in the stream wherefrom we take our water. His mother has been grief-stricken and her field has gone to waste. The rest of us try to rotate through her chores, but we cannot afford to coddle her for much longer. I heard a complaint this morning from another mother whose babe died in her arms a year ago, that the woman should not be allowed to shirk her work. It is a difficult situation, but I am obliged to tell the mother that she must return to her fields when we return," she sat straighter in her saddle. "That is partially why I am riding. It clears my mind and makes me a better judge."

"Then you certainly should not feel guilty for it."

She cast him an amused glance. "I am gratified you think so. I do appreciate your concern for that facet of my conceit."

"Is there anything myself or the members of my éored can do to help with any farming or other chores?" he asked.

"We are doing quite well, but thank you," she said. "I cannot think your men enjoy such work in every village wherein they patrol."

"We all do what we must."

Yuldburg began to appear as they left the plains, mountains closing in behind and beside them. They slowed to a walk, and various individuals began hailing them from their farms. Lothíriel called everyone by name, expressing delight as they assured her of their well-being. Éomer could do nothing but nod, for he was not so familiar with these his lady's people, and he regretted it. The obvious affection they had for their mistress was enviable. Most of Edoras liked him well enough, but as king and an amateur one at that, he was far more susceptible to criticism. The militarism of his past had given him no experience with being questioned.

"Would you care to join me for dinner?" Lothíriel asked, breaking him from his dour contemplation. They had arrived at the dirt road that separated the houses. "That is, I often eat with Widow Halfa. I have little talent for preparing meals, and so we pool our resources and she cooks for me. She would not mind one extra guest, though the rest of your company may not fit around her table."

Éomer smiled as he stared into her twinkling slate eyes. He knew he was smitten, but the awareness of her overwhelmed his senses. "Er, yes. I would like that very much. My men will be happy eating the provisions from Meduseld. Though," he felt mischievous as he told her this. "A few have found ladies to woo in your little town. They will be welcome in those homes, I am sure."

She laughed then, an open and unabashed sound, and was content to joke cheerily with his guards as they unsaddled their horses and groomed them briefly. There was a small enclosure at the western-most corner of the twin rows of houses, and there the horses were led to graze in the corral. "Widow Halfa lives in the cottage next to mine," Lothíriel told him as they walked towards her dwelling. "I shall tell her of your expected company, then I must finish weeding my garden before I speak to the mother of whom I told you. Why don't you take your time to assess our economy, as I am sure you are supposed to."

A twine of guilt pricked his heart, even in the sight of her gleaming eyes. He could send any of his marshals to Yuldburg to take care of necessary business, but Imrahil's beseeching plea had drawn him here in the beginning. He now returned for the lady's smiling lips, but he could not very well tell her that without begging to marry her. Agreeing to do as she suggested, he prepared himself to do without her company for the following hours.

.

.

Widow Halfa was a formidable woman. Éomer had always found Lothíriel imperious by his standards, but this older woman was in a class of her own. Within seconds of his entrance into her neat home, his muddy boots were removed and his hands and face washed, all while she told him exactly how she had had guests in the past that had dirtied her home more than her children ever had. But he knew how to take a hint, and stood without moving while she finished preparing the vegetables, his arms folded across his chest and trying not to breathe too loudly.

Lothíriel entered soon after him with the suddenness of thunder though none of the fright, shutting the door behind her none too gently. She was obviously quite familiar with the rules of the house, and was properly cleaned by the time she kissed the Widow in the cheek, sent Éomer a teasing glance, and began to set the table of dining ware. She was wearing a clean dress the color of dark blue, a color that would always remind him of her. He did not notice that he was staring until the Widow addressed him.

"King you may be, but entitled to laziness you are not. Put this on the table," she barked at him. Éomer opened his arms automatically to have them filled with a platter of mushrooms and and bowl of what looked like carrot greens. He moved to his lady's side to set them on the table, trying not to disturb the pristine rug. Lothíriel took the mushrooms from him, which improved his balance briefly until their hips touched. Béma! He needed to be more careful. The greens had almost spilled onto the floor in his hyper-awareness of the tingles the lady sent through him. And that surely would have been a disaster. He gulped, trying not to inhale her scent too much.

The Widow brought a skillet of roasted rabbit to the table and ordered them to sit. After seeing that all were served food and water (wine being in short supply, as she told him), she turned to Éomer. "Many things baffle me in my old age, King, but none more than your frequent presence in my little hamlet. Théoden certainly never graced us with his presence. Why do you?"

He nearly choked on a bit of meat. Lothíriel intervened, giving him time to clear his throat. "Halfa considers Yuldburg to be hers," she explained. "For she has lived longer here than everybody. She has seen nearly all the residents born."

"I see," he said. "And I apologize for lack of courtesy to you, Widow Halfa. I have not the time to meet with all of the village's most experienced leaders." He saw Lothíriel cover her smile behind a napkin, but the Widow smiled graciously at his compliment. "And in defense of my unusual behavior, I do try to oversee the most desolate towns either myself or assign such tasks to my marshals. That way we can better ration resources and manpower."

"You have a good head on your shoulders. But I see fit to warn you," she poked a fork in his direction. "You should not dally chasing princesses through the woods!"

Lothíriel blushed a pretty pink, and Éomer felt the blood rush to his own face. "You must forgive me," he said. "This one is too easy on the eyes by half, and she seems to find the time to inform me of all the local affairs." He winked at his lady, and she smiled. Didn't compliment her enough, indeed!

The Widow was laughing loudly. "Lot is very good at what she does, that cannot be debated. If she can pull herself from your arms enough to show you just that, I suppose I can trust you to wrap your head around our affairs. Experience aside, a king should never dally."

"Madam, I assure you that I have never dallied!" Éomer said. His pride was catching up with him, for he hated to be accused of such paltriness. He struggled to loosen his grip on his knife.

"Never?" This from Lothíriel, who leaned across the table slightly to study him closely.

"I swear it," he said. "For I find that such trysts belittle sacred relationships to a high degree." His lady's gaze dropped quickly, as if ashamed. Could a lady so proud feel such a sentiment?

"What does the king have to say about the affairs of the rest of the Mark?" The Widow was asking. Éomer covered his discomfort and that of his lady's with an overly enthusiastic description of the progress of repairs made throughout the Mark. And on that subject he was fortunately able to keep the women occupied, as they spent the remainder of the evening making comments and sharing opinions of what he should do. He had to laugh to himself though, for the outspokenness they exhibited was absent in his council chamber in Edoras. They also spoke briefly of Lothíriel's audience with the woman in the afternoon, and of the potential amount of crops expected in the autumn.

The sun has sunk long past by the time Éomer found himself escorting Lothíriel to her door, at the Widow's insistence and despite the princess's protests. They walked slowly, having been filled to great satisfaction with a blackberry and custard tart, which Halfa had proudly declared to be her specialty and made particularly for her king.

"You have learned Rohirric very well," he told her to fill the silence.

She smiled at him. "Complete immersion is the best way of learning any skill."

"It is obvious you care deeply for the people. They thrive, and I am very well pleased. You have eased my burden in Edoras, to be sure."

Lothíriel was quiet for a moment before responding. "Yes," she said. "We have all worked hard."

"But you especially, no?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "I cannot comprehend why, but you seem to be wanting me to say something. What is it?"

He shrugged. "You must be imagining things."

"I have worked hard, and perhaps more diligently in organizing matters than others, but that comes with the station of my office. That is all, my lord."

Éomer wondered why she did not use his name. Did she still hold him in high formal regard? Too high for any romantic sentiments?

"My lord," she said suddenly. Her eyes were focused in the distance, as if her thoughts had deserted their conversation. "Do you draw?"

He growled as his temper rose faster than a deadly missile loosed from a longbow. "I will tan the backsides of those soldiers! I swear, it is bad enough that they are inclined to snoop, but the fact that they cannot hold to a direct order from their king -"

She was looking mightily bewildered as she held up her hands and said, "Peace! I did not realize that this particular question would affront you so. You have my apology."

His temper eased as quickly as it had risen. "You do not need to give it, but please accept mine," Éomer said, his heated color betraying his embarrassment. He should not have concluded her intentions so quickly. His damned anger! "I do draw - to answer your inquiry, but only privately. I was unlucky on a recent tour that one of my men came upon me in such a pursuit. I have yet to live it down, though I have sworn them all to secrecy."

She was laughing. "Such irony of inquiry! And I hardly believe that artistic talent is something to be frowned upon. Men are unfathomable creatures! I only ask because I wish to spend my free hours stitching. I have not the capability to stitch something pleasing without a pattern, and I cannot draw worth a fig. I would ask for a template of designs is all."

"Then you shall have it," Éomer bowed. "Perhaps tomorrow morning? We can delay our departure by an hour or two if it pleases you."

"Then I shall see you at dawn, my lord king," Lothíriel curtseyed in return, a grandiose and exaggerated gesture, and by her smirk he knew she was teasing him. But she acceded to having him kiss her hand, and with the promise of tomorrow, she entered her cottage and he left to seek his own sleep, whether it came or not.

.

.

He had already prepared a satchel with parchment and charcoal sticks when Lothíriel arrived at the camp just as the sun was rising. She had been eating a handful of strawberries as she walked, and threw the last of the stems over her shoulder unconsciously. As she got closer, Éomer was delighted to see her tongue licking up the red juice staining her lips. He had not yet breakfasted, but now he knew what he was craving.

"Shall we?" he asked, with his satchel on one shoulder and offering the opposite arm to her. They walked in all the comforts of a steady friendship, and she directed him towards their primary source of water, a chill and respectable sized stream about a quarter-mile from the village. He sat on a mossy log and pulled out some supplies while the lady roamed along the bank before returning with handfuls of blossoms.

"I would like each to be about the size of a gold coin," she said. "For I will only be stitching small items, for now."

"As you wish," Éomer said. He had little interest in flowers, but one by one he spread the petals on his parchment to copy. He found solace in drawing; ever since he was a little boy it had been one of his greatest pleasures. But as he had become a hardened marshal, he was pressed to enjoy his hobby in small, rushed doses while worrying of being snuck upon by judgmental acquaintances or Dunlendings. And so he was out of practice, but Lothíriel's compliments even of half-finished drawings pleased him greatly. "For your use," he said when he was finished, and the last of the blossoms had been brushed unceremoniously to the ground. "Though for my sweat and expounded effort -" he mocked wiping his brow. "I ask for a favor by the lady's hand in return."

She smiled as she ruffled through the pages once more, murmuring over her favorites. "I am in your debt, my lord," she said. "I would prepare a hundred favors for you, if they could begin to repay the kindness you have shown me. Indeed, for the attention that you have always bestowed upon me," Her eyes were guileless, and the expression in them made his heart pound. "But I should keep you from your seat no longer. I will leave you here, for I wish to take a short hike in the forest before I am required to spend the rest of my day in less...exhilarating pursuits."

Éomer caught her hand in his as she was turning to leave, and he raised it to his lips. "Until next we meet, Lothíriel."

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_Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen._


	7. The Heart's Cry

_There is a moment when I look at you, and no speech is left in me. My tongue breaks, then fire races under my skin, and I tremble and grow pale, for I am dying of such love - or so it seems to me._

_._

_._

**October-December 3020 TA**

_Éomer had been pacing his study for days_. The agony of his feelings, the desire for Lothriel, and the indecision of what to do plagued his thoughts day and night, making him positively useless. He had noticed - though he pretended he did not - that his brief answers and sullen manners caused his counsellors to begin asking him fewer questions. The satisfaction that came from from rebuilding the country that he loved was undermined by the constant thoughts of his lady. He had never been so besotted before, and now he sympathized the men he had known as a youth. One had even given up drinking spirits at the request of his betrothed, and Éomer had not understood then. But he understood now.

Worst of all was the hope. He had known his lady now for over a year, and with each of their encounters, his love grew, and her treatment of him became warmer. He wondered again, as he had for so long: could she love him? She acted as though she might, and he knew her not to be shallow enough to trifle. The trilling songs of possibilities were woven into his soul, refusing to give up the hope. Damn. He had to do something.

In the first snowflakes of winter, he rode from Edoras with a few men. The journey seemed to last an age, but when he dismounted outside of Lothíriel's cottage as night began to fall, he did not remember a single minute of it. He felt as if he were walking through a memory of a dream, so removed he was from his surroundings. A winny sounded to his left as he walked up the short path, and he started to see Chaser inspecting him from where the gelding had been munching on dandelions. "I am no threat," Eomer assured the horse, who did not appear convinced, only continuing to eye him with suspicion. "I am not here to harm your mistress." He knocked on the heavy door, swallowing nervously. He did not know what to expect.

"Enter." Her voice carried to him with the hope of birdsong in the spring, and steeling himself, he opened the door. She was sitting by the hearth, a pile of fabric in her lap which she was stitching. She did not seem taken aback by his presence. "Welcome, my lord," she said, nodding her head. "You honor me with your presence." Her face looked drawn, as if she had not been getting enough sleep, and the easy smile he was accustomed to was absent.

"May I sit?" he asked, feeling awkward and unsure of what else to say. She waved him to a chair sitting opposite her, and he sat. She returned her attention to her work, unspeaking. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his discomfort increasing. The cracks of the fire echoed in the room and sounded like thunder in the silence, and to distract himself, he looked around. She had decorated with a few personal items she must have brought with her, and dried flowers native to this area. There were a few books on the mantle, but in the dim light he found it difficult to read the titles.

"Would you like a cup of cider? I am afraid it is all I have to offer." She did not look up from her stitching.

"I would, thank you," he said. While she was in the kitchen, which was set apart from the big room, he took to pacing, for his legs felt slightly wobbly. There was not much to look at that he had not already seen. But there was a small table, presumably for eating, though covered with letters and spare writing materials. Curious, Éomer pushed aside an envelope addressed to the lady by a familiar hand and discovered that Imrahil had been in correspondence with his daughter. He jumped to hear Lothíriel step onto the landing, and feared his blush might give him away.

But she was not looking at him as they sat again by the fire. She had not taken up her stitching again, though now the flames seemed to be the most interesting thing to her. For the first time in her presence, Éomer felt completely lost. He knew her to be polite at the worst of times, and friendly and cheerful at the best. What was this dour silence?

"The cider is delicious, did you brew it yourself?" he asked, the words deadened as they were captured by the wooden walls and held there.

"I helped only. It is from Widow Halfa's batch."

"Ah." Well, that had not been a prolific subject. She certainly was not inclined to return any conversation. Oh, why had he come! He could have easily (well, _more_ easily) have penned his sentiments in a letter. At least then he would not have been confronted by this cold demeanor.

"My father has written to me," she said suddenly, still fixated in the fire.

"Oh?" he returned.

A few more moments, and she seemed to gather courage before she finally looked at him, her grey eyes seeming to build an impenetrable defense. "I was unaware of the agreement between you and him," she said.

"What agreement?"

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. Her gaze turned sharp and angry. "Please do not play ignorant with me, my lord, I do not wish to skirt around the issue! I should think that since you have misled me thus far you might have manners enough to give me honesty now." Her words hit him like a horse-kick to the gut, and before he could speak she stood and retrieved the letter he had seen, clearing her throat to recite as she returned to her seat. Her voice was slightly mocking."' _Dear Daughter, I hope you are well. I assume that my sworn-son has been looking after you sufficiently as I made him to promise, and so I do not worry for your health. I am sure there is a room for you in Meduseld if common life becomes too harrowing. You must be most kind to him for suggesting the position you now carry, he is a great friend to me and will keep you safe.'_ " Lothíriel stopped reading, crumpling the paper slightly in her strong grip. "The letter continues, but it is not relevant. Please, my lord, favor me with the truth: is my father's interference the sole reason for your supposed friendship to me?"

Éomer was momentarily dazed. And he had thought Imrahil to be more discreet! He only vaguely remembered their conversation all those months ago. "Nay, it is not," he said. "I brought you to the Riddermark at your own insistence and your father's good will after I swore to him I would see you safe. I could have sent any of my marshals that may act in my name to oversee your health these months, but seeing how quickly I fell in love with you, that would have only been a detriment to my own happiness."

A myriad of emotions was present in Lothíriel's face. Anger, betrayal, desperation, and dare he think - tenderness? No, he could not presume."Is that what you declare?" she asked. "I suppose your extended story would be you _only_ come to Yuldburg because of your regard for me? That we would not have the help of your men if _I_ had not held your heart? A very lovely story, to be sure, but I will not be fooled."

Éomer felt his temper rising. He never lied, and did not appreciate being called a deceiver, whether it was by the woman of his heart or not. And he could forgive her for many other things. "Those are rich sentiments from you," he said in a cutting tone. "I was certainly not the one to initiate what transpired between us last Yule."

"A mistake," she said in a low voice. "I know my weaknesses, and I did not act rationally that night. I only -" She pressed her lips together, stopping her words, as if suddenly changing her mind about continuing that thought.

"The past is the past, and I have little care as to what brought me here at the beginning," Éomer said, trying to sound calm despite his riotous feelings. "But I come now to ask you to be my wife. I have longed for you. I crave you every minute as I would miss a limb from my very body. I admit I have never loved before this, but I am not so blind to the symptoms!" He laughed bitterly, rubbing his forehead with one hand and looking away so that he might not read any expression on her face. "I once desired many things, but now I desire only you. To come to know your mystery and to prove my devotion every day," His voice was growing louder in heightened emotion. "You will never be removed from my heart, even if your only words to me will be a denial. I have chosen you to be the companion of my life, keeper of my hearth, and queen of my land, but now the matter rests in your hands." He gently removed her cup from its death-grip in her hands and clasped them within his own, surprised to feel them trembling. "Your beautiful hands...Lothíriel. My dearest love."

Her eyebrows were furrowed. She looked to be contemplating a great many things, and did not speak for a few minutes, though they were an eternity for Éomer. "It seems rather silly to ask for my hand to clear up a surmised misunderstanding," she said at last. "I am not so easily bought."

"I am not trying to purchase you to save your reputation or to hold you under my command!" he said. "I am trying to tell you that I love you, that I have loved you, and will continue to love you until the world passes away into darkness. I don't give a horse's ass about your father's intentions for either of us! _You_ matter to me, and you alone."

Lothíriel smiled slightly, but it was aggrieved. "Were I of a more susceptible nature, I would swoon over such a speech. But I cannot, for I have no desire of matrimony at the present."

How could she be so harrowing! Even a lesser woman would thank him and deny him politely, instead of hurting him further. But he could not give up. But the hope had lived within him for too long already. "Tell me one thing," he said, leaning in close to capture her gaze in his. "Have you regard for me of any nature?"

She frowned. "Certainly. I have considered you a great friend to me since your invitation for me to live in your land. Though of late I have questioned your sentiments for me."

"Do not question them! Let your heart be at ease - my feelings are true."

Her frown deepened, and she pulled her hands away from his and sat back in her chair, studying him with a troubled expression. His fingers felt empty for the loss of her touch. She belonged with him, that he knew in the deepest part of his soul that was reserved only for absolute truth. Even doubting her returned affections he had never questioned the rightness of their unity. He knew as he had known little else before. Though that would be cold comfort if she never desired him in return. He waited for her verdict.

"I cannot marry you," she finally said. He let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

"Would you explain to me why?"

"I cannot marry you because I have duties here, and I do not wish to leave my people while there is still so much work to do. I will not marry you because I distaste the situation between you and my father as it relates to me. I must be frank with you: I do not anger easily, but a congeniality with me is nearly impossible to restore once broken. I honestly believed that your friendship with me was born from true feeling, not as an obligation. It shakes my very core to be so used."

"But I told you -"

She waved him away. "Were you not of such an honest nature as mine, I would not have believed your explanation. But you must give me time to consider this, and to come to forgiveness."

"Is there any chance at all of you consenting to be my wife?"

"There is a third consideration that I have not shared," Lothíriel said, her chin jutting forward. "For perhaps the most potent reason for my denial is that I do not wish to be your wife. I have freedom in my life here and I would have none as queen."

Éomer leaned back in his seat, trying not to let his emotion show. "Very well," he said. "It will be as you wish."

For a moment he thought she might retract her words, for visible on her face was something akin to regret. He would not believe it though - he could not lead himself on any longer. But she did not respond to the subject any longer. "I do have a gift for you," she said, obviously concealing her own feelings and attempting normality, same as him. "It is gratitude for the sketches you gave to me, as I promised." She bent down and rummaged through a basket near her chair, pulled from it a neatly folded square of fabric. Éomer took it from her and put it in his front pocket, not wanting to heighten his feelings for her by examining an item made by her hand. He really had not thought her so unfeeling towards him!

"I thank you," he said. "And I will leave you now, for there is little else to say between us."

Lothíriel only nodded. "I pray that you may stay safe, wherever you go."

He stood and held out his hand. She placed hers in it willingly, and he bowed low, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles before kissing it. How soon would he forget the smell and feel of her skin? He did not want to - for this parting seemed near permanent, not a simple respite from each other's company. "Farewell, Lady Lothíriel."

"My lord."

Still dazed, he stepped from her cottage and walked into the night, alone in his thoughts and wishing to have none at all.

.

.

The ride back to Edoras was completely opposite from the one to Yuldburg. Éomer would remember every minute of it, every emotion that passed through him, and every thought that surfaced in his mind. He became worked up with anger, and acted in irritation towards his men. He knew they should not suffer as he did, for they did nothing wrong, but his temper that he had strived so hard to be unwavering now became volatile. His torment was unmitigated - why should he try to rein in the violent feelings that coursed in him? He could not ignore them, after all, being overwhelmed with despair in both spirit and mind. Could he blame Lothíriel? Truly, he could not. For despite his rage, he still loved her. She had not been unkind, not really. She had only given him the answer that _he_ did not want.

And so his days continued in darkness. Foul moods, half-hearted attempts to spare those around him from falling into the deep pit of despair with him. He asked himself over and over what he could have done differently. Said differently. Felt differently. The only conclusion that came to him during those weeks was that he acted from his heart, though his head had tried to circumvent the impulsiveness that had betrayed him. He should have waited until he was sure of her feelings.

The letter that began to draw him from his wretchedness arrived on a wet, blustery and cold day about three weeks from Yuletide. Elessar needed help to purge Cirith Ungol! The rats of Mordor had been multiplying secretly during the past several months, and their activity had only been discovered three days before the letter was dispatched to Éomer. He breathed with relief when he read the words - for this was what he wanted: a distraction, a mission to take him far away from this hell. Despite only housing his lady love once, his home haunted him and reminded him of _her_ , and of everything they had done together. One especially distressing incident had involved him refusing supper, loudly and publicly, after he saw that mushrooms were on the plate. The memories, small and few as they were, were weighing his mind, and of course did not improve his spirits.

Éomer felt little regret for tearing three full éoreds from their families for the long holiday. He was despondent, after all - and their enjoyment would only worsen it. He knew he was being unreasonable, but was unwilling or unable to overcome it. He did not care for any introspection to determine which.

He drove his troops hard, aiming to arrive at Minas Tirith to meet together with Aragorn's men before the march to Mordor. Even so, constant movement kept him from succumbing to the numbness the snow began to drive at him. A suspension of emotion would have been more welcome, for his heartache did not end at the border, despite his best attempts. With only gruel, oats and dried goat meat to eat and riding hard from before dawn to after dusk, there should have been a retreat into the basics of human need. But more than comfortable lodgings he still yearned for _her_.

"My friend!" Aragorn had been awaiting their company in the seventh circle of the city, where soldiers from Minas Tirith were quartered and awaiting the rest of the troops. The Rohirrim riders had already begun seeking out old friends and housing their horses from the bitter cold. All the sooner to seek out the hot food that seemed to bludgeon the senses, which Éomer had been contemplated indulging in when Aragorn found him instead. He was pleased to see his friend even in the activity of war around them, and tried to appear solicitous.

"I am surprised your new wife allowed you on this mission," he told him, as they clasped each other in an embrace.

"Allowed! Hah!" Aragorn said. "She is not pleased, of course, but she understands duty. Our compensation is that she is lodging with me in my tented quarters until we ride from the city."

"And when will that be?"

"Dawn after next."

The sun was already sinking in the sky. Éomer relented the reins of Firefoot to Féola. His squire had been hovering nearby, clearly eager to be useful in a crowd of such heroes. "Have you summoned Faramir and his men as well?" he asked as they began walking.

"I have not - his speciality is on the side of range and stealth, neither of which will be very helpful in the terrain around Cirith Ungol, according to the reports I have been receiving. Though a small legion of rangers waits at Osgiliath for my orders."

Éowyn and Faramir and been married February past, in too deep of winter for Éomer to make the trek to Gondor for the celebrations. He had been in regular correspondence with his sister, though he really should have visited, especially apart from duties. But he had been loath to take time away from his kingly responsibilities, pathetic as his idleness had been. It was easier to lose himself now in Aragorn's company, for the required attention his friend was commanded as they discussed their vocations. Advice was shared and reciprocated, and strategies drawn for the upcoming attack.

Éomer almost felt like his true self again as they travelled to Cirith Ungol, despite the evilness that was growing. A part of the journey followed the same direction as the road to the Black Gate, and bloody nightmares began to plague nearly all in the camp. Tensions were high. As for himself, well, Éomer found that in his darkest moments, if he softened his heart for that time alone, memories of _her_ and the love he had for her and the precious warmth they had shared for so short a time succeeded in comforting him. No doubt he was seen as a loony, for he arose smiling at the dawn, while others were exhausted from sleeplessness, their throats raw from half-strangled cries in the night. The beeswax Éomer stuffed in his ears while he slept helped as well.

They were met at the entrance of the Morgul Vale by a regiment in the colors of Dol Amroth. Éomer did not react well to the sight, for they reminded him of _her_ , but he disguised his disquiet in sullen silence. Well, maybe he did not disguise it very well. Fortunately he was not approached by any that he might know from that city, and Éothain chatted beside him on mundane matters that took little effort to respond to.

The dark shadows of Mordor had considerably lessened since the battle at the Black Gate, but the atmosphere still thickened and pressed upon them with a terrible weight. To chase despair away, Aragorn arranged for music and entertainment that very night. The few instruments that had been packed along, were brought out, and a program of songs was made. Éomer did not participate, for once in a while a Swanship caught his view and caused his stomach to sink as would a bag of stones, when he might otherwise be distracted. He ate supper in silence, but in his defense, he did try to be cheered by one of his favorite Rohirric tunes, which was sung by the Riders in stirring deep tones and accompanied by makeshift drumming.

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_Open the door for the fiddling tailor,_

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_The king's son is the fiddling tailor!_

Aragorn had approached him in the inaudible footfalls he always seemed to have, sitting down and beginning to eat his own meal in silence before speaking. "You are not yourself, Éomer. You are welcome to confide in me, if you need it."

He had not been sure until now if he would be comfortable sharing his heartache with his friend, but the words came naturally and unbidden. "I have fallen in love with a woman, who is beauteous, hard-working, and fit to be queen. But she denied me when I asked for her hand."

"Ah."

_Faithful I am to him, kinsman I am to him,_

_Faithful am I to the tailoring fiddler,_

_Faithful I am to him, kinsman I am to him,_

_The king's son is the fiddling tailor!_

He pushed some meat and rice around his bowl with a finger. So far he was not feeling any better. "What has made me unhappy is that she showed interest in me as a man, but a singular piece of information from the past has turned her against me. She will not have me because of this, but not, I think, because she dislikes me. My heart now is the heaviest burden I have ever borne."

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_Open the door for the fiddling tailor,_

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_The king's son is the fiddling tailor!_

Aragorn was silent for a moment, finishing his meal before speaking. "There is little cure for the agony of unreciprocated love."

Éomer gave a bitter laugh. "I have tried many things. None of them have worked." The Rohirrim broke off into singing nonsense words to the same rhythmic tune. Most of the camp were now clapping their hands or thighs, or banging with their eating ware. He decided that the quiet support of his friend _was_ helping. Though no particular insight was to be had, his spirits had lifted slightly. He opened his mouth again to speak, but was interrupted by a Swan knight familiar from his mane of black hair and eyes the color of storm clouds, all the way to his newly shined shoes, and who appeared in front of them with a wide grin on his face.

"Greetings, my lords!"

.

.

_Poem by Sappho. The song at the end is a traditional Irish song called "Oscail an Doras", edited slightly for my own purposes._


	8. Midnight

_Then in the lull of midnight, gentle arms_

_Lifted him slowly down the slopes of death_

_Lest he should hear again the mad alarms_

_Of battle, dying moans, and painful breath_

.

.

**December 3020 TA**

_Éomer inclined his head towards Amrothos_ in salutation. Without waiting for invitation, the prince collapsed into a sitting position beside him, stretching his legs out lazily. "Some march, eh?"

Éomer gave an evasive grunt.

"I have persuaded Erchirion to sing tonight, he has a lovely voice. Pray do not tell him I said so - he becomes self-conscious if I use such a feminine descriptive. Ah! Here he goes!" The second prince of Dol Amroth had gotten to his feet to stand near the largest fire in the camp, clearing his throat and waiting for complete silence before beginning.

_Bonny do I find you_

_My faithful brown-haired lass_

_Singer of the songs_

_The words from your mouth so sweet for me_

_When my mind was melancholy_

_And you uplifted my heart_

_Whenever you spoke to me_

"This is my sister's favorite," Amrothos leaned over to whisper. Éomer felt his face growing hot at the mention of his lady, and did not look up. She was his no longer. "Have you heard her sing, Éomer?"

"No."

"I suppose I am not surprised. Lot rarely sings, even for family, though her voice is delightful."

_Despondent I am_

_Tonight on the high fells_

_And uneasy my sleep_

_Often do I think of you_

_As your image leaves me sad_

_And if I can not have you_

_My world will not last._

The words and haunting melody were making Éomer's eyes sting, but he could not drown out Erchirion's voice. He jumped when Amrothos addressed him again. "Have you seen my sister of late?"

"About three months past."

"Is she well?"

"She is in perfect health, and by all account perfectly happy with her duties."

_A short time before we parted_

_That was when others began_

_To tell you, my own darling_

_That I would not return_

_Do not let that disturb you_

_My dear, if I am well_

_Nothing will ever keep me from you_

_But the cold arrow of death._

Erchirion bowed slightly, indicated the end of the song. Applause was scattered, and when Éomer joined in he cast his eyes around and learned that too many of the soldiers were looking downcast and thoughtful. He wished, with all his heart, that so many young women would not lose their chance to marry after this campaign.

"Lot writes to me often, and has spoken most highly of you," Amrothos said when the noise died down.

"That is kind of her."

"Though her last letter was a bit perplexing...I was wondering if you might know her troubles better than I, since you have seen her last."

"Perhaps." Éomer was avoiding looking at Aragorn as well, for a quick glance told him his friend had fixated him with a shrewd gaze. To his relief, Erchirion had returned to his own place far from Éomer. He was not sure how many more Dol-Amrothians he could handle.

"If we have time during the siege, I will show it to you."

"As you like."

Amrothos was obviously getting frustrated with his rebuffs at conversation. Unfortunately, when Amrothos grew frustrated, he also became...irritating. He fidgeted for a few moments, and Aragorn quietly took his leave to inspect some restless horses. Éomer wished heartily he could do the same, but it would be rude to leave Amrothos alone. "Have you any polish useful for a leather saddle?" the prince asked.

"Erm...yes. It is in my saddlebags."

"Might I borrow it? My fingers are itching for a task."

Éomer had to smile as he hailed Féola to bring him the bags. So the brother and sister had that in common. He took the opportunity of the pause to take his empty bowl to the mess tent and wash his hands before returning to his seat. He even only considered bolting from the awkward situation once. Féola must have run to return so quickly - already Amrothos was rummaging through his belongings. "Oi!" Éomer exclaimed. "I can get you the polish myself."

Amrothos did not respond, only smiling slyly as he held up a folded white bundle with two fingers. "A lady, Éomer? Is that your great secret?"

"Give that to me!" he growled, lunging at the prince, who only laughed and flicked his wrist out of reach.

"Let us see if she stitched her initials onto your favor, shall we? So that you would not forget her as you rode away, perhaps?" Éomer's fury rose as Amrothos daintily unfolded the square. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "Cinnamon!" A roll of fragrant bark fell into his open palm. "A lady from the south then, or a very rich Rohirric lady. In Dol Amroth, we trade for our cinnamon with the coastal Haradrim tribes." He flipped open the handkerchief and squinted closely at the designs before searching for an artist's mark. "You know, women put a fair amount of stress on blossoms and their meanings, you might want to look into this one… aha! Here is her mark. I can barely make it out...it looks like an L, or a very bad T, which is unlikely with this quality of workmanship. Very small stitches, she must be accomplished indeed."

Éomer wrenched the handkerchief from Amrothos's grip, who started at the sudden movement. "This is none of your concern, man!"

"L, eh? Hmm...Lerwen? Lalaith? Very pretty names. I am not sure I know of any Rohirric names that begin with L," Amrothos thought for a moment, an agonizing moment to Éomer, who was too anxious to think of something that say that might dissuade Amrothos from thinking further. But too late - his eyes narrowed. "Lothíriel?" he said, looking at him keenly, suddenly more interested.

"If you think -" Éomer began.

"Tell me, Éomer king," Amrothos said, projecting his tone. "What is the nature of relationship between yourself and my sister?"

"I will not answer to pretentious questions!" Éomer's voice was rising. "And I cannot respect you for looking through my personal belongings and then answer you an indiscreet question. My relationship with your sister - or lack of it, is the concern of only herself and I. Take the polish and go - before I say or do something I might regret!"

Amrothos finally took the hint and stood to leave, but not before throwing a last comment. "I cannot wait to see my father's face!" he hooted. "I would pay you in gold to tell him, even for the reaction." He gave Éomer more crafty glances and suggestive eyebrows wiggles before disappearing in the crowd.

Éomer breathed deeply, trying to calm himself before he gathered up his things and strode toward his tent and and the privacy it offered. The handkerchief that _she_ had stitched for him was crumpled in his grip, and when he was finally alone, he threw everything else to the floor before carefully spreading out the cloth on his hand, holding it near the single candle that had been left lit in his absence. He did not know why he had brought it to Mordor, and he had not yet examined her work for fear of causing himself more pain. He set it on the small desk that had been provided for him, sitting on a stool and pulling a candle near. Mallow blossoms and honeysuckle. He did not know the meanings of either of those! Well, he could not claim to know the meaning of any flowers at all. Perhaps he was expecting something written out more clearly. He ran a finger on the lines of the blooms. She really was talented, her stitches small and delicate. The scent of cinnamon rose, and he inhaled its comforting scent. Would she have prepared such a thoughtful gift if she did not care for him?

Frustrated, he wadded the cloth into a ball and threw it on the ground before jumping up to open the door to his tent, barking at Féola to help him remove his damned armor. Despite the singing that was still going on outside, Éomer sank into his pathetic cot soon after, too full of righteous anger to rest.

.

.

Foul and stinking orcs leered at him. Rusty weapons were brandished in the direction of the Rohirric troops from where the enemy was crowded at the base of the desecrated tower, and taunting cries of ' _Gajol_! _Gajol_!' were heard even across the short soon-to-be battlefield. There were no exchanged words with any commander the enemy might put forth before the charge, as Aragorn had stated that any formal negotiations would avail nothing. The signal came from the Gondorian king, far to the right flank of the combined troops. Éomer pulled the engraven ram's horn from his belt and winded it, and a chorus from his men rose behind it, singing their bloodthirst. It was only about fifty yards to the front line of the orcs, but enough speed was gathering in the hooves of the eored that the first several orcs in the line were effectively smashed. The stench of orc blood rose around Firefoot's hooves as they slowed and began the weapon-work. It was a pathetic attempt on the part of the enemy - they did not even have missiles! But his analysis lost its usefulness very quickly, and he lost himself in the death around him.

_Should affliction's acrid vial burst over thy unsheltered head, school thy feelings to the trial; half its bitterness hath fled._

Éomer already felt himself spent with hatred. It was for this feeling that he called to mind Uncle's favorite song, which had often been requested from Meduseld's aging bard. Éomer had always admired Theoden's ability to collect himself quickly, and to retain control over his famous temper. He had learned much at the old king's knee, but he himself still lacked refinement in practice. Battle, for all its dangers, was monotonous in its routine of killing, and he continued to recite the verse to himself in the commotion, attempting some semblance of serenity.

_Gauge thy wrath by wisdom's standard; keep thy rising anger down._

His thoughts strayed. He remained furious at Amrothos for the humiliation he caused and upsetting the delicate balance of forgetfulness Éomer had been striving towards. He resented the sister for her denial. He _knew_ he could not blame the lady for her own feelings, but his own, which howled, overrode his reason.

_Hear defense before deciding and a ray of light may gleam, showing thee what jewel is hiding underneath the shallow stream._

Why had she denied him, anyhow? He was perfectly desirable as a husband. He had shown her nothing but care and heed to her well-being!

_Do not emotions smother, but let wisdom's voice control._

But that was the issue, was it not? That she believed, or blamed him in part for her father's insistence that he look after her. He should not have made that promise to Imrahil. He needed to learn to think more thoroughly before making vows!

_School thy feelings; there is power in the cool, collected mind._

His movements were jerky and rapid, not at all the controlled motions he should have been using. Firefoot was becoming unnerved, and for that reason he checked himself before continuing the death-work. He looked upon the scenes around him without seeing, for he had no desire to add to his nightmares.

_Passion shatters reason's tower, and makes the clearest vision blind._

The Rohirric riders had picked upon an old war song, a loud chanting that was usually successful with frightening the enemy further. Éomer picked up the song himself, adding his baritone to the mess. Luckily there were no judges for intonation, or of singing all the words.

Victory! The battle had been brief. It seemed to Éomer, though he might not mention it to Aragorn - the spies had grossly exaggerated the orcs' numbers. Half the present troops would have been enough. There was still plenty of energy among the men of the West, with cheers and shouts carrying even across the carrion. A sense of triumph filled him, and he gritted his teeth. If only life and love were so simple as life and death in war. Now properly tired enough to ignore any unwanted matters of the heart, he thought he might finally sleep. But there were still wounded men to visit, duties to oversee, bodies to be buried and orc carcasses to be burnt. Thankfully, very few men of his had died and none of his close acquaintances. He and Aragorn shared a bottle of wine and laughter that night, and his mind now completely deadened from the day's events, Éomer rested easier.

The journey back began smoothly as well. All were in high spirits, and Éomer congratulated himself over and over for successfully ignoring Amrothos's attempts to speak to him for several days. He rode with Aragorn, having given his guard strict instruction to keep anyone wearing the Swanship several feet away. Aragorn overheard this remark, and after they were out of earshot, and well on their way to Minas Tirith, said, "I am not overly surprised that Princess Lothíriel is the one that retains your affections, my friend."

Éomer nearly choked. "Beg pardon?"

"Come now - I am not daft. I have never seen anyone so intent on avoiding the Swan Knights. They are merry, to be sure, but hardly in such a distasteful fashion. I know you to be friends with Erchirion, and Amrothos - when he is not in an irksome mood."

Éomer wondered if having an Elven wife and fey upbringing could account for his friend's damned good intuition.

"I will not trespass," Aragorn continued. "But if you are in need - myself and anything I might offer are always at your disposal."

"I thank you," he replied, touched by both the concern and the lack of intrusion. "But this is my burden, and mine alone."

Aragorn nodded consent, and they continued on in silence. They were finally out of the Morgul Vale, and the clean air refreshed all. Éomer was beginning to relax when commotion broke out behind him, and he only had a split second of warning from Éothain's shouts before Amrothos fell in beside him, out of breath from what had apparently been a scuffle.

"Your men are very protective of you this morn," he said, grinning cheekily and giving his war-mare a pat for her obviously successful maneuvers. "Anyway, I wanted to give you Lot's letter, see if you can work it out. I hope you can share some insight so that I might reply to her better. You know her circumstances better than I." Éomer accepted the sheaf of paper with no small amount of trepidation. He tucked it into his sleeve to read later, after having to promise Amrothos several times that he would not forget. Indeed, there was no chance of that, for the prince stuck to the Rohirric king like a burr to wool.

"Read it," he urged again and again, and finally, temper no longer in check, Éomer acquiesced as they shared a skin of ale in the early evening, which the prince had been hoarding. At least the nuisance was good for something! He took a deep breath, and wondering if Fate was having a merry laugh at him for the irony of this moment, slid his finger under the broken seal to reveal the lady's precise handwriting.

_Amrothos -_

_I am gratified by our father's correspondence to hear that you are keeping busy and happy. Please consider this continued censure for never writing me yourself, despite my frequent letters to you._

_I have a specific motive for this particular note. I have encountered a problem, and out of all my acquaintances, you are surest to have the experience to help me: I am in great danger of falling in love. I may already be fully and completely devoted, but my denial is stronger still. I know you have hardened your heart against anything more serious than a dalliance since you were a youth, and so I ask for strategies._

_You know this man, though I shall not tell you his name. I am in no mood for teasing, even in written form. I do not see him often, for his occupation keeps him journeying from one side of the Riddermark to the other. But even when he is far away, he is constantly in my thoughts. I find myself greatly debilitated for this weakness, for I should be focused on keeping my people healthy through the winter, not mooning after a man._

_I am not without fault. In my widowhood, I crave the physical companionship of another man, and have found comfort in him. What can I do, to experience the intimacy of companionship, without my heart being so compromised?_

_You are shocked to hear me speak so. Well, stop it. I ask only for help, not judgement. But please, do not mention to Father the contents of this letter. He does not need more reason to mistrust me._

_I am desperate. I wish to regain control over my faculties as soon as possible._

_Write quickly-_

_Lothíriel_

His hands were shaking, the brittle paper crackling in the silent air. He did not know if he should scream aloud in frustration, or whoop for joy. She was not immune to him, or at least as much as she had claimed. He quickly scanned the date on top of the page - 19 August 3020. So she had written to Amrothos before he had spoken marriage. Even with no reply of ' _strategies'_ , as she had put it, she had denied him very well. His agony all winter had been unneeded. Well, apart from her rejection. Why should he have been miserable, if there had been even the barest chance?

"Éomer?" Amrothos's eyes were glinting with satisfaction. "You know the man of whom she speaks?"

"Irrelevant," he said. "I do not see why you needed my opinion anyhow, her message is quite clear."

"Right, well, I am only being nosy. I want to know who she is referring to. You do know, it is written on your face."

He let out his breath in an irritated hiss. "Even if I did know for sure, which I do not, I would not tell you. It is not my secret to share. Aside from that, your sister stated explicitly that she does not want you to know his identity. I am not so foolish to risk her wrath." Éomer folded the paper back into a neat rectangle and tossed it to the odious prince.

Amrothos sighed dramatically, tucking the letter into his vest. "You are too noble by far, Éomer King. I admire it...but I still hate it." He strode away, whistling cheerily.

Éomer really loathed that man sometimes.

.

.

The threat of any person from Dol Amroth gone now that Amrothos had done his damage, Éomer did not mind when the elder prince, of a much more tactful nature, rode with him through Cormallen. "My father sends his regards," Erchirion said, falling in by Éomer, who had been riding alone, apart from his thoughts. "He was left in charge of Minas Tirith, but he wished for me to speak to you especially when we met."

"Whatever for?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Lothíriel, of course. We all worry for her."

"Ha! She needs no worry."

Erchirion smiled. "I understand your sentiment, but Lot is prideful enough to deny her own misery even when it eats at her. I would not be so sure."

"Nor should you be so swift to dismiss my assessment of her circumstances."

"Of course not; that was not my intention."

They rode on in silence. The sun had been hidden all day behind a quilted sky of black and grey. It would snow before they arrived at the White City. Éomer had been trying to ignore that in a day's time he would be shivering and frozen inside his mail coat. He sighed. "I apologize for my brash manners. Your words were well meant."

"Of that I know," Erchirion said, his snarky comment showing his relationship to both Amrothos and their sister. "Pardon the intrusion, but is a lady to blame for your low spirits? Amrothos only hinted at me, he obviously wanted to be questioned but I did not oblige. 'Tis your business only. I ask as a friend and confidante, not a busybody."

Erchirion was well on his way to becoming Éomer's favorite of Imrahil's sons. "A lady indeed, though I will not share her identity," Éomer said. "She has left me fair broken-hearted and I find that this wound does not heal as easily as a cut from a sword."

The prince was grinning now. "They never do. I myself have been in love several times and seem to catch a broken heart more oft than the common cold. It is most unfair."

"And you have yet to find a lady to return your sentiments?" Éomer was surprised at this. Erchirion was quite a catch; being both wealthy and titled, as well as sensitive and talented. Perhaps women did not entirely know the best type of man to make a husband. He thought for a moment that reason would account of Lothíriel's denial, but immediately discounted it. She was not such a fool.

Erchirion shrugged. "I shall let you know when I do. Any way, I asked about you. Is there anything I might do to ease your pain?"

Éomer could have laughed. If only the prince knew of his very relation to the lady in question. More likely Éomer would have a sword drawn on him than any sort of sympathy. His irritation towards Amrothos was considerably lessened now that Erchirion's easy ways were restoring Éomer's good humor. They began to talk of lighter things, and the clouds began to break, sunlight streaming down to illuminate the dry stone road to Pelennor, and onto towards Minas Tirith.

.

.

_Song at the beginning of the chapter performed by Anúna. The first song was derived from a poem written by Hector MacKenzie, the second by Charles W. Penrose._


	9. Hope for the Suffering

_Though our travels may be lost and wandering from the dawn at the edge of the world, One Voice calls to you._

.

.

**January-March 3021 TA**

_The more he thought about it_ \- and he had plenty of time to think as they finished the journey to Minas Tirith - the more he was convinced that Lothíriel did in fact care for him. Aragorn persuaded him to tarry in the city for a month, which he could not enjoy fully with such anxieties plaguing him. During this time, he tallied what he knew be to be true in his mind, and drew logical ends with the strategic skills in which he was learned.

The first fact: He loved her. This was not really in debate, but it was necessary to begin at the very base of the issue.

Fact two: She had kissed him, teased him, and shown many other signs of interest in a continuation of their relationship.

Fact three: She had told Amrothos that she was in love. Unless she had been with other men, which he found unlikely knowing her loyal nature, she had been referring to Éomer.

Fact four: She was certainly the type of woman who, after making up her mind, would deny herself the stars if she felt it right. The conclusion to be drawn from this was that since she was determined not to marry, her own falling in love was unlikely to compromise that resolution.

Fact five: Lothíriel had told him, in plain words, that she did not wish to be queen. In all possibilities, she could have only been referring to her sentiments at that precise moment, and had fallen in love with him later, so this was really a weaker point in the argument.

He reviewed these things over and over again, but instead of going mad with despair as he had thought himself to do during the journey south, he was going mad with hope. She _could_ possibly accept him, if he could convince her to change her mind. It was probably easier to reverse a cyclone with his bare hands. But he knew what they had to be true and pure, and he finally decided that if for no other reason, he needed to return to the Mark.

But first, for familial connection and wanting to reflect more upon his decision, he decided to visit his sister in Ithilien, for he had not seen her since their uncle's funeral. He sojourned with her during Springturn, which was celebrated in much warmer weather in Gondor than in the Mark. The festivities reflected that difference in climate, for there was fishing and swimming during the day, and later, feasting in the starlight. Éomer enjoyed Faramir and Éowyn's company, though he would have enjoyed it more if young women had not continually approached him, each supplicating him to drink ewe's milk from her skien. Fortunately, there was a similar tradition in the Mark, so he was not caught unawares and forced into any promises. Éowyn had only watched on, bemused.

The itch that he had, drawing him to Lothíriel even across hundreds of miles, returned in greater strength than before on the day after Springturn. He had tarried too long, though he was sure he would not be terribly missed in Meduseld. Most were probably rejoicing at the long absence from his moods. He thought with regret upon some of the things he had said in his misery to his friends. He had been brought up with more sensitivity than that, and should have refrained from allowing anything to gain control over him.

"Brother."

Éomer nearly jumped out of his skin, whirling around to face the figure that crept upon him. "Blast it, Éowyn! Why do you no longer wear boots? They used to give me some indication of your presence!"

But she only smiled her most gracious smile, sweeping around the tall rose bushes to sit daintily on a bench, her delicately slippered feet peeking from the folds of her skirt. She patted it for him to sit beside her. As soon as he acquiesced, Éowyn clasped his hand in hers, as if going to rebuke him. But he spoke first, gripping her hand with his other one. "I apologize if my company has been lacking," he said. "I am afflicted, and though I try to act as I normally would, I am failing. Your hospitality has been both welcome and sufficient, and I have enjoyed my stay."

"Why Éomer! That is so unlike you!" She was laughing at him. "Your sobriety is not ideal, to be sure - but for you to apologize! Is my matronly status finally driving you to better manners?"

"Again - my apologies for not furthering your conceit, sister dear - but it was another that has done this to me. Perhaps Faramir has told you of her: Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

She smiled, clearly full of gratification at his confession. "He long since informed me of her nature and past, and Amrothos recently informed him in a letter - and Faramir cannot keep anything private from me - of your apparent attachment to her."

He fell into a string of riotous curses, only stopping when Éowyn clamped a hand over his mouth with a frown. "I am sorry," he said, not at all lowering his voice from its furious tone. "But that bothersome ninny -"

"Amrothos has done nothing wrong by sharing your secrets with me. _You_ certainly share nothing with me, and I your only blood relative!" Her tone was indignant. Sisters could be so interfering sometimes!

But he only nodded, distracted. What he would do to Amrothos if he had the chance! He could only hope Lothíriel would forgive him for any...inflicted damages.

"Éomer," Éowyn said, drawing him from his thoughts with tender concern. "What will you do?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion," he replied. "I already asked for her hand, which she refused. But I am convinced in my heart and also by strict analysis that she does care for me in return. I need to convince her of my sincerity and of her own foolishness, but I do not know how."

"I would venture to say you should not call her a fool."

"Then surely I am the fool."

"Nonsense! You have done no wrong, but perhaps to care for her too much. When you are married, I do not see that particular point as an issue."

"It is an issue now. She will not see me, but she is all that I desire under the sun. I do not know where to turn unless it is towards her, and I do not know where to go except in her direction. What use am I to our land, Éowyn! I feel that as if I do not have her I should give the throne to another and wither in my own selfish despair."

She was unimpressed by his speech. "Now you are being ridiculous. I have never known you to be indisposed by anything you did not allow."

"I am allowing her. She has full access to every part of me, even all of my heart. I can withhold her nothing."

"So disallow it and regain yourself."

"And betray my every feeling?"

"Else you betray your heritage."

Éomer dug in heel into the ground, grinding dust into the stone pathway. His sister was making things more difficult. She did have a talent for telling him, very plainly, exactly how he was and how he should be. Perhaps that was part of the reason he loved Lothíriel so much - his lady often did the exact thing. His mother had, too. What was it with overbearing women, anyway! "So that is what I must decide," he said.

"Indeed."

.

.

_Hot fingers trailed burning touches across his skin. He groaned aloud to feel her moist mouth exploring him, kissing him. Words of comfort, of endearment and undying love fell from her parted lips and into his ears, enticing him further. For what lasting joy could be found in such tender caresses that could not continue in a lasting relationship? His hands wandered down her beautiful dimpled back, and he felt goose pimples begin to break out across her silky skin._

" _My heart," he whispered. A soft hum of pleasure answered him, and her eyes opened. She looked upon him in contentment, and he knew that she wanted him back. He could not move his body from where it lay on his back in this dream of his, but no matter - she administered to him and his pleasures with the concern of a long-time lover. He knew it was not real, but he banished the thought from his dreaming mind, and looked into her eyes, moving his fingers along her ribs, and stroking her delectable breasts. He could not quite remember what they looked like, but his imagination filled in the discrepancies. She was moving more quickly now, intensifying his need and desire to be with her, above her, inside her..._

" _Come to me," she said, and her slippery body pulled away from his, becoming shrouded in a golden light. He tried to recapture her in his hands; he ached for her - she was moving away. "Come to me."_

"Come, Éomer! You are missing the game!"

Begrudgingly, he forced open his eyes, squinting in the noonday sun. Éowyn was calling to him, where she and several other noble ladies and a few men, Faramir included, were playing a round of Prisoner's Base. For his cripplingly slow gait, which he blamed personally (though not publicly), on his aching heart and loss of zeal for life, Éomer had volunteered to be prisoner, laying down in the soft grass in his listlessness, nearly as soon as the game had started. None from his team had rescued him, obviously, instead putting their strategy towards capturing the other team's members. They were now winning, and Éowyn, his team lead, now wanted him saved so that they might finish the game. He stood and sighed, brushing dust from his trousers and taking the opportunity to adjust his tunic so that it disguised any... responses to his daydream. He tipped on the balls of his feet, waiting for Éowyn, who was gaily trapezing through enemy lines, teasing the much slower and much more gaudily dressed ladies. With dainty steps and satisfied with the wake of tumbled women behind her, she stepped into the prison, grabbing his arm before squinting back at the prison guards.

"Faramir will distract them, it is part of the strategy," she whispered. "Ah - there he goes." Together they ran, quickly enough to negate the need for stealth, and made it back to the home base as Faramir did. They shook hands with the teammates while the opposing team groaned half-heartedly.

"I no longer expect to win when the prince and princess are on a team together," one lady was saying, though she seemed good natured. "Having the princess's brother on the team only made it easier for them. I need a cool drink after that exercise!" The party broke up, and though thirsty from his time in the sun, Éomer lingered, kicking the dusty chalk lines with his boot until they disappeared. Once it would have been easy to socialize, to flirt and chat, to make friends. He felt removed from the things he once enjoyed. He remembered the dream, and wondered, _What is wrong with me_?

He needed to decide what to do. Return to Meduseld and live in misery for ever? He would be a rotten king. Throw himself at Lothíriel's feet and beg for her to accept him? Ha. Then he would live in misery _and_ humiliation for ever. Gossip of his lovesickness would begin spreading through his éored, and eventually through Meduseld and even Edoras. Perhaps he should cut his losses, and think only of his land and of the leader it needed. Obviously, that was the logical thing to do - but why think logically when acting by sentiment could be so more rewarding? Rewarding, or damning.

Without thinking, his feet had lead him to a tall watch tower at the corner of the prince and princess's house. _Come to me_ , she had said - but only in his mind. He should not put any stock in that. But it felt that his dreaming had gotten away from him, and the daydream had been come from beyond his own simple thoughts. He began to climb the steep steps, dark in the inclosure of the tower with the sun beginning to set. He nodded at the ranger stationed at the lookout, who tactfully made himself scarce. Éomer began to pace along the balustrade. Seven steps from one end of the walkway to the other, and he had every line and stone memorized within an hour. The guards below were indulging in a song, which he did not recognize, and the strains of singing and laughter filtered up to him, distracting him from his otherwise confused thoughts.

_Once a flaxen girl grew bored_

_Asked her da to get her a dwarf_

_So the stout lad gave her his sword_

_And had her crying, "More!"_

_Ha lilly Hey lilly_

_Ra Ra Ho….!_

_She was the forge_

_And he was the stone, ho ho ho!_

He was beginning to doubt whether Faramir allowed such vulgar tunes on duty, but he enjoyed the melody. The verses sounded familiar, as if he already knew the story being told. But he did not quite want to think, and hummed along as he paused to look out upon the forests of Ithilien.

_Virgin fair was long suppressed_

_And dwarven lips reached only her breast_

_She rode him through the night and day_

_With gold her da did pay!_

_Ha lilly Hey lilly_

_Ra Ra Ho….!_

_She was the hammer_

_And he was the iron, ho ho ho!_

He pondered the concept of balance and of his great need for it; for love and family to counteract the loneliness of being the sudden king of a desolated land. For someone to tell him straight of his idiocies, and someone for him to give his heart to. The guards abruptly ceased their singing, as the captain left the barracks and began to shout at them about the inappropriateness of such crudeness where ladies might happen by and hear. Distraction gone, Éomer was left alone in silence for the next several hours. He was driven by a single thought, one question that burned in him like a high-leaping flame of Beltane: Could Lothíriel accept him?

.

.

What he did not know, though he came to know later, was that at that very moment hundreds of miles away, the lady in question was sleeplessly tossing in her bed. Lot, (as she called herself, though she would never admit it to her brothers, who would have a hayday with that particular bit of information. It was bad enough that they called her by that nickname without knowing her private thoughts), _did_ desire him, and the regret of denying him left a bitter taste in her mouth. All the tears a woman could possibly conjure had been spent long months ago, after her refusal and the subsequent hurt that she perceived in Éomer's person. She would never choose to cause anyone that she cared for so deeply such an amount of pain, but her ruddy pride had gotten in the way, as it always did. It had prompted her to enter a ridiculous facade of a marriage with a Southron lord that had gained her little in the way of personal achievement in matters of the heart. It had caused her to butt heads with Barul's first wife, and Laitka had forbidden Lot from bearing any children by the husband. If she had been given a bundle of baby to love, she felt that she could have coped better with her isolation.

Perhaps that was part of her initial attraction to Éomer. The thought of a child - _their_ child - in his arms filled her with such intense feeling that she could have burst with happiness and longing. He was the perfect sort of man to be a father: loving, conscientious, and easily pleased. There were few enough times in her life that she could admit to being fully happy without forcing herself to be such, and nearly all of them were in his company. Whatever idea had come to her that she was better off without him had been born of the bitterness of believing that he did not truly care for her and fear of vulnerability. Deep down she had known the entire time that his feelings were authentic, but her pride suppressed them, as well as the dreams of flaxen-haired babies with Éomer's infectious smile and sense of fun. Those dreams were dead now.

 _No need to dwell on them_ , she thought to herself sternly. _Spring audit tomorrow_. She began to list the seeds that each family had. _Wheat, seed potatoes, barley, peas, parsnips, turnips_. After that was exhausted, every breed of mushroom in the mountains. _Inkcap, blewit, morels, parasol, rassula_. And then, still not tired, she next ordered them alphabetically. Her mind continued whirling unhelpfully.

A few hours before dawn her thoughts became too compressing for her small bedroom, and wrapping herself in a blanket, she left her cottage with no light to guide her. She knew her way around well enough, and early dawn's grey light guided her hike through the near woods. Loneliness was making her unusually nostalgic, and she ripped out a handful of holly berries from where they grew along the path, and they became crushed and shredded in her anxious fingers. But that just reminded her of Éomer, and of his amusement at her need to always have her fingers busy. She dropped the mess of berries, fresh pain wrenching her heart.

True dawn found her finally sitting upon a fallen tree, shivering in the cold now that her walk was complete. She tightened the blanket around her shoulders, remembering when her king - her wonderful Éomer! - had kindly rebuilt the fire for her while she was visiting Meduseld. Oh, what great mistake she had done by refusing him!

Tears came once more, the steam from her ragged breathing disappearing in the chilly air in puffs. Regret seemed to inhabit every cell of her body, and it was impossible to return to her previous self. So much for her claims of solidity! She finally composed herself, and turned her attention to the vibrant orange of the sun, feeling as if death had swarmed upon her with its creeping shadows of despair, and she wondered. What would become of her?

Lot had never considered herself a woman of many fears, but now she was frightened beyond belief. For all her strength, or appearance of it, she felt completely hopeless.

.

.

Éomer came to a decision at once. Hang it all - he had to ask her again. He would explain to her, he would plead with her, he could even blame the mess on Amrothos. Though that was a silly plan - Amrothos had nearly nothing to do with anything beside a renewal of Éomer's hope. Ergh - that meant the prince was to be thanked! Béma! Forget Amrothos.

That very day, Éomer gave the orders for his guard to return to Edoras, only deciding at Elfhelm's assistance to allow his marshal to accompany him to his lady's village. There was no need to take a guard, he convinced himself, for who would want to witness their king's folly? For that was what it surely was. They arrived at Dunharrow on the first day that spring seemed to be considering an appearance. Yuldburg was only a day away, and that night, Éomer took special care to clean and groom himself. Travel's grime would not endear him to any lady, and he had to tread lightly. He fidgeted with nervousness, grooming Firefoot before recalling that he had already done so.

Elfhelm did not comment on the anxiety, though it showed.

.

.

Wary eyes followed them as they plodded on the dirt trek into the village, and Éomer felt his hackles rising. There could not have possibly been any danger...unless the people knew that he came for a fight. Well, not exactly a fight, but not a fight of weaponry. He had strapped his sword to Firefoot instead of at his hips, for it would be little use against a lady's mind. Conversations were dying around him, and as he alighted in front of Lothíriel's cottage, he sensed that he had been followed. It made him vastly nervous.

"My lord king," Widow Halfa stepped in front of him, bowing before fixing him with a perspicacious stare. "Welcome to our home. If you would care for some refreshment before you continue on your way, I have almond cordial chilling in my kitchen."

"I thank you for your offer," Éomer said. "But I come on a specific mission. Is the Lady of the town at home?"

The Widow shifted her weight. "Ah…" She cast a look to the curtained windows, and then shuffled to Éomer's side to whisper, leaning her face up towards him. "She certainly is, but she may not welcome you. We have not been blind to her black moods, as well as she thinks she hides them. Because as she has explicitly stated that she does not wish to see you, I know that you are most likely the only one to restore her humors." Elfhelm snorted from behind him, as if thinking just how his king had been as cantankerous of late. Éomer flushed red, and patted Firefoot's neck to distract from his embarrassment. But before he could make up his mind of what to say, the door to the cottage was thrown open, and all eyes were drawn to it.

Lothíriel had not yet noticed her audience, attention obviously fixated on the task of balancing a wide basket at her hips and trying to shut the door with the opposite hand. She lifted her head and took a half step forward before she saw the scene. Her eyes travelled slowly, wandering across the people in apparent confusion. Her mouth compressed into a thin line when she saw Elfhelm, and when she saw Éomer -

A small squeak was audible in the tense silence. She drew in a sharp breath and lifted her chin. She stared at him, as exquisite in form and face as he remembered, and her expression full of uncertainty. He stepped forward. "My lady, I convey your brothers' wishes of good health to you, along with my most sincere compliments."

"My brothers?" Perhaps it was the shock of seeing him, but she seemed slightly slow on the uptake, whereas she was normally quick-witted.

"I have been in Gondor these months on mission with Elessar, purging the dark land of scum," he said. "I was, _ahem_ , fortunate enough to renew my friendships with both Erchirion and Amrothos, though especially the latter."

"I see." She was unconsciously smoothing down her skirt. "I thank you for their greetings."

"I have also come on most urgent business of my own, of a personal nature."

At this Lothíriel started slightly, though she stayed taunt. "It is best that you come inside that we might counsel in private." She turned on her heel and disappeared back into the dark house. Éomer made a move to follow her, handing Firefoot's reins to Elfhelm.

"My lord," his marshal said in a low voice. "These people seem to think you are a threat to their beloved mistress. Take care!"

Éomer nodded, and followed his lady through the door, shutting it behind him and enclosing them in silent seclusion.

.

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_Beginning verse written by the wonderful Bill Whelen. The song of the lass and the dwarf was written by myself, inspired by DownliftedandUnderwhelmed's story, 'The Linden Tree' and with her permission. If you have not read it and love Thorin Oakenshield and/or Rohan, you definitely should!_


	10. Homecoming

_See the eagle rise above the open plain,_

_Golden in the morning air,_

_Weaving and soaring,_

_Watchful and protecting._

_I am your shelter,_

_I will enfold you._

_Warm with a mystery,_

_I may reveal to you._

_._

_._

**April 1 FA**

_She was standing at the window_ opposite the door, facing out. Her arms were folded tightly in front of her, and Éomer could do nothing but stare at her back. He swallowed, forcing his dry throat to open. "Lothíriel…"

"No." Her voice was soft, but strong as steel, and Éomer welcomed the sound as he would welcome a branding iron to close a wound. "I cannot see you, my lord."

He did not believe her for a moment. She was hiding her agony, he was beginning to believe, but it burned in her nonetheless. He knew her well enough. "Lothíriel," he said again, stepping closer to her. Her back stiffened more. Frustration made him bold. He had been gentle to her for far too long, and so he spoke his whirling thoughts, forcing the words from between his gritted teeth with no regard to the consequence. "As which goddess do you see yourself, Lothíriel, that you might saunter high in the air without a care for ties to the earth? Why do you assume that you may have a crown of golden sun that pierces my very heart, and that I might let you pass me by?"

She was trembling now, the trembling of high walls built in years of solitude. Éomer was determined to see them fall. "Lothíriel," he said again, at last. To this single word, the name that brought misery and happiness to him at once, he poured his pleading, his love.

She broke. A great sob burst forth from her throat, a strangled noise that echoed in the room, bouncing back to Éomer that she felt the same as him. His heartache had not been shared by him alone, he knew. She was hiding her face in her hands, and Éomer stepped forward, gently pressing her hands to his chest with one hand, and lifting her chin with the other. Her cheeks were wet, and the redness that lined her eyes bespoke weeks of desolation. No, he was not alone.

"Éomer," she said, no more than a whisper, and refusing to meet his gaze. He started, to hear her use his given name at long last. It was an intimate gesture, and brought searing warmth to his every fiber. She clutched to his tunic, the fabric wrinkling in her fists. "Éomer," she said again. It was a caress to his soul, and a beam began to break out on his face. "Éomer," her voice caught. "Éomer, Éomer! How can I return such words of worship to you? You are a fixture in my life as expected as the sunrise, no less beautiful but more missed when it is absent. I pretended indifference because I feared to give myself to you, even as I thirsted for your very presence. I should not have denied you any more than I should curse the sun for its life-giving light. I can only beg you, now, to forgive a soul as wretched as mine, and to take me as your wife," She pulled his hand from her face and kissed his palm tenderly. "I wish you could assure me that such precious feelings are not gone forever, but I hardly dare to hope. I would swear to cling to you as my deliverance evermore, for that is what you are. If you would bestow your love and body to me…I shall not want anything else under the stars."

Éomer bent and touched his forehead to hers, her sweet breath ruffling the hair from his face. "You are the only woman to ever have a place in my heart, dear one. I am yours, if you command it."

A choking laugh escaped from her. "I command it, my lord, for now you will never be rid of me!"

He kissed her then, claiming her mouth with an intensity that bespoke their months apart in mutual longing. She responded in kind, pressing her body to his and clinging to him as if she were drowning. She would be his wife! He was becoming dizzy. He held her tightly, his hands straying downwards from her shoulders. His lady was as lithe as he remembered from that single, fateful Yule night. Once his grip was firmly on her hips, she pulled her face from him to catch her breath. The sky had begun to darken, and he could barely make out her face, but her clear emotions remained intense, only no longer in unhappiness.

"Éomer!" she murmured, lowering her head. "I…I cannot…"

He silenced her protestations with more kissing, savoring his own wild feelings that coursed up his body at the taste of her tongue, and the vibrations of her moans. She was trembling in his arms. A strangled gasp from his lady finally made him pull away, though he regretted relinquishing every inch between them.

"My legs will not bear my weight any longer," Lothíriel whispered, lifting her hands to twine her fingers through his hair. "Nor can I bear this sensual torture without the liberty to act on it. Éomer, I am not ignorant. When…when my body and heart feel thus, they must be satisfied, else I might scream."

Triumphant, Éomer lifted her into his arms as he would a babe. She weighed considerably more, however, and even more than the other ladies he had carried. Still, the absence of cricks in his neck from looking down at his wife the rest of his life would be just compensation. He strode confidently out the door to her cottage after kicking it open, ignoring the questioning and surprised looks of his marshal, and the villagers that had crowded outside their mistress's house, no doubt to flay the king if he misbehaved himself. Lothíriel buried her face into his neck, and his skin prickled as she began to nibble his skin gently.

"It is fortunate I already planned to take you to the river for some privacy," he muttered when they were out of earshot of the others, escaping into the cool cover of the forest. "I am in great need of a cold dousing."

She whispered in his ear, "I might prefer activities that would negate the need for such, if you would consent." Her breath was hot, and did not help his constitution.

"Woman, I swear to you that I will not turn you into a whore!" he exclaimed, sharper than he intended. "When we come together we will be fully wed, for I have no desire to have feelings of guilt at facing your father hang over my head at such a time. _You_ will be the only thought in my mind."

She was so very adept at distracting him! He did not notice the river until he stepped in it, cursing his wet boots. Lothíriel extracted herself from his embrace, and as he sat to remove his boots, found himself being pushed flat on his back by his lady. The cool damp of the earth brought relief to his raging need, but it was little remedy, for her hot body quickly covered his.

She was kissing him, urgently and forcefully, and Éomer could not stop himself from running his hands up and down the length of her body several times. His thoughts became less coherent as she pressed against him. Her skirt had risen high in such an inappropriate position, and his fingers fiddled with the hem, debating. Her movements slowed in time as the initial wave of passion faded, but Éomer still craved more.

"My lord, we simply must be married as soon as possible," Lothíriel said, gaining a remarkable amount of control over her features. She seemed almost casual! Éomer growled deep in his throat in frustration. "If you send riders tonight, accounting for the days it takes to get to Dol Amroth and how fast my family might pack and arrive at Edoras…perhaps we might wed within the month."

"Anything," Éomer said, trying to catch her lips again.

"Unfortunately, Ithilien is further, and your sister must come. Six weeks, at most."

"Six weeks it is, then."

"But Elessar cannot be forgotten, and arranging a royal company from Minas Tirith, even in haste…my love, I do not see us being wed before harvest! And with the snows…I do not think we can count on an opportunity to marry before next spring."

"Spring!" Éomer sat upright, upsetting his lady from her perch. She tumbled a bit, but pulled herself to a dignified sitting position, too close to him to think. But he had to think! An idea struck him, outrageous in all its glory. "Lothíriel, my love, do you trust me?"

"I trust you with my life, my lord."

"Then let us return to town."

.

.

There would be no shortage of scandal. The King of Rohan demanding that his marshal marry him to the Princess of Dol Amroth within the hour! But the gossip would come later, for the villagers rushed to prepare some semblance of ceremony. Their little hamlet would not disappoint!

Flowers were pulled from their carefully cultivated beds without regret, and the young girls of the village quickly had a makeshift crown sitting on the lady's head. Every candle was brought out, and set around the doorway of Lothíriel's cottage, giving a golden glow to the proceedings. Wine was chilling, and children had been sent to pick as many blackberries as they could find in the forest in the middle of the night. Widow Halfa was baking honey bread as quick as she could. There was no time to roast any meat, but a wedding-feast made entirely of sweets was, in Rohirric culture, prophetical of a sweet marriage.

Elfhelm kept his dour countenance in the frenzied excitement, Éomer saw. But he withheld any counsel against his king, and for that, Éomer was grateful. He stood, with the hands of his lady love's in his own. Even in the dim light of the candles, she was so very elegant. Her lips were still extra pink from their earlier kissing, and Éomer decided that if they were _not_ swollen in the morning, he would berate himself as a lacking husband indeed. She looked at him, her eyes grey and trusting, with an unfathomable amount of love pouring into his own. Sentimentality perhaps belonged in songs and legends, but a little on his spontaneous wedding day was not amiss. Not a single tremor of regret was present in his body. And none in either of their families could hardly be offended at missing the ceremony, since so few were present any way.

The villagers finally fell in to watch the proceedings, completely hushed. Even Chaser was standing quietly nearby with this intrusion into his living space. The surplus flowers that had been picked adorned his dark mane and were peeking from his nibbling lips. Elfhelm began to chant the songs of binding, his voice echoing easily in the small vale. Éomer barely listened, for the touch of his lady's skin on his own drew aught else from his mind.

The chanting stopped. There was an awkward cough.

"What is it, man!" Éomer barked to his marshal.

"We have no ribbons, sire," Elfhelm said.

A single gasp rose from the audience, and quick as a wink, Rowyn ran to the bridal couple, yanking her own ribbons from her hair. "Please," she said. "Let me offer my own." She kissed Lothíriel quickly on the cheek before returning to her place. Elfhelm held the ribbons, bemused, and then nodded at Éomer to begin. He took a deep breath, and asked his bride,

"Do you love yourself more than you love me?"

Lothíriel was smiling. "Nay, I have died of myself and I live for you. I have disappeared from myself and my attributes. I am present only for you. I have forgotten all my learning, but from knowing you I have become wise. I have lost all my strength, but from your power and love, I am able."

Elfhelm placed the center of the ribbon's loop and threaded it upwards from under their clasped hands.

"Do you love yourself more than you love me?" Lothíriel asked, her words a challenge, and one that would be frightening were it not for her sparking slate eyes.

Éomer cleared his throat, pulling his thoughts back to the present. "I have died of myself and I live for you. I have disappeared from myself and my attributes. I am present only for you. I have forgotten all my learning, but from knowing you I have become wise. I have lost all my strength, but from your power and love, I am able."

Elfhelm passed the ends of the ribbon through the loop and wrapped their wrists once more before tying a sturdy knot and reciting, "Feel no rain, for you will be shelter for each other. Feel no cold, for you will be warmth to each other. There should be no loneliness, for you will be companion to each other."

Éomer ended the ceremony then, tugging on their clasped hands to pull Lothíriel towards him for better kissing. Scandal indeed, for the bridegroom not waiting for the pronouncement of their new marital state.

It was a rushed celebration, and soon after the last of the honey bread disappeared, the younger children began to yawn. Éomer stood with his bride, still in the flickering light, and fed her berries and bread that had been forced on them by the venerable Widow. "You will need your strength," she chuckled, patting the king's cheek, and gave a small pouch to Lothíriel, leaning in close to whisper to the lady before walking away, still sniggering.

The noise had died down, and only a few men were left to fetch the candles and deconstruct the makeshift tables. Lothíriel watched them silently, leaning her head against Éomer's chest, before looking up at him. "I have waited long to request that we retire to my bed. Now I am impatient enough that I command it."

He laughed, sweeping her in his arms and hastening towards her cottage. "One may never accuse you of being else but plain-spoken, my darling."

.

.

She was gasping as his lips found a new place to kiss, and there were many. She was not as tanned as she had been that day in the desert long ago, no doubt from living in shady mountains, but he loved this new creamy shade. And at a such close quarters he found that she was positively freckled! He enjoyed searching for every single one and kissing each in turn. It was utterly sensual and profoundly intimate.

Her body was writhing against him, and the only words that came from her mouth that made any remote amount of sense all begged him to finish her torment. He had actually done so, a few times already, unwilling to shirk his husbandly duty so soon. But her pleasure was such a foreign and extremely satisfying feeling to him that he could not resist experimenting. He very much enjoyed the noises that she made when he touched her.

Another whimper broke the night, and his wife collapsed further into the single pillow. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed deeply for a moment, before fixing him with a piercing stare. "How can you stand it?" she demanded.

Éomer smiled at her. "I am simply savoring the journey. Do not forget, I am not as experienced as you, and I wish not to hurry my wedding night. It is my first, after all."

His lady propped herself on her elbows to kiss him. Even though the majority of the last hours had been spent in similar pursuit, Éomer doubted that he would ever tire of it. He groaned, unexpectedly, as he felt Lothíriel's hot hands begin to stroke him.

"I will not see the dawn a maiden of _your_ touch," she whispered, biting his ear.

He finally set his body on hers, the erotic sensation chasing away the discomfort of the heat between them. "A maiden would not make such coy comments in her marriage bed," Éomer said, trying so very hard to form complete sentences. "Virtuous you may be. Or were."

Lothíriel wrapped her legs around his hips before continuing the kissing. He could not refuse the invitation, and the shocking sensation of her warmth enveloping him nearly had his muscles give out. No words now, and their bodies began to move together in rhythmic motions. Her back arched. His toes curled. Perhaps not the most romantic love-making, especially for a wedding-night - more frantic than sentimental - but his lady had never been conventional.

.

.

She rested against him with her eyes closed as the sky lightened, clutching to him tightly. Éomer stayed alert, running his fingers down her bare arm. He feared to sleep for the possibility that he was walking in a dream, and he would wake alone, his lady turning to shadow and smoke beside him as the ghost of his frenzied mind. But the sun began to break through the window in her bedroom, and in the new light, he was surprised to see the beginnings of bruising love-bites along her arms and neck. He pulled back the top sheet. More marks across her belly and thighs. Ah. A wedding without her father was probably best, then. Any parent would not want to see a daughter so used the day after her wedding. Éomer doubted his bride would mind, though.

She had said he was her sunrise, but Éomer thought that she was the light of the noon-day to him. Casting his thoughts back, he always associated her presence with heat. The heat of the desert, the heat of desire and anger, each in their own turn, and now…the heat of lovemaking. His blood seemed to be at a permanent boil, at least so far. His need rose, already wanting her again. Lothíriel shifted, and blinked as the sun hit her face.

"It is morning," he said.

"Indeed it is," she said, yawning. She lay quietly for a moment before lifting her face to meet his gaze. "It is probably very improper to make love more than once in a day, but in all technicalities, it is a new day. I must have you again."

He had her on her back in an instant, and was beginning his loving stroking of her body when he heard the door to the great room opened with a clang, and the Widow, whistling cheerily, began making the noises of breakfast. Éomer groaned.

"It is well enough," his lady said, removing herself from his embrace and the bed. "I am famished, and will need a large meal if we are to continue."

He watched her with greedy eyes as she pranced suggestively in front of him. The view he was given as she bent over the washstand to rinse her face was especially gratifying, but he regretted losing sight of her bare skin under her clothing as she dressed herself. Éomer remained prone in his position until Lothíriel picked his clothes from the floor and threw them on him.

"Quickly now," she said. "I want my breakfast and morning walk before we can return."

He groaned, covering his face in his hands as the bedroom door shut behind her, but accepted the inevitable. For a woman so inflamed by passion, she seemed to recover quickly. He remained at the pivot of desire as he dressed, and it was not until he pulled on his second boot that he felt as if he could face the world appropriately. He sighed, and left the bedchamber.

Lothíriel was already sitting at the small table, and the Widow was pouring her a cup of tea. Éomer picked up on their conversation as he sat across from his lady, completely ignored by both women. "I still maintain that this is completely unnecessary," his wife was saying. "You have never served me before."

"You were never my queen before, silly girl. Drink up!" The teapot was set on the table with a bang, and Halfa swept off to tend whatever was cooking on the stove.

Lothíriel opened and closed her mouth several times. Éomer did not hold back his smile, for he had seen his lady wife bested few enough times. It was a shame enough he could not do it himself. But then he worried, for the look of dismay that accompanied her lost expression. "Queen," she murmured under her breath. She did not meet his eyes.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, and picked up the teapot. He was beginning to pour it himself when a spoon cracked across his knuckles. "None for you!" the Widow said, having reappeared. "I have fresh milk, or a spot of ale if you like. This tea is specially prepared for the queen." He raised his eyebrows as this, but complied. Lothíriel looked up at him, and to his immense surprise, flushed red. After a plate of scones had been set down, as well as butter and jam, she leaned across to whisper to him, "It is meant to increase fertility."

 _Ah._ "You know, my dear," he said, casually buttering a scone for himself. "I have never seen you so discomposed. One might think you are a blushing bride."

"I am not timid in my affairs," she said, gritting her teeth. "I am simply feeling vulnerable this morning, that is all. Things always seem different in the light of day."

They did not speak again until Widow Halfa left, taking the dirty dishes with her. She had clearly done what she viewed as a good job in seeing they were sated, for there was little table space left under the full platters. Éomer set down his mug of milk, and caught his lady's wary gaze. "You are not regretting this," he said.

"Certainly not!" Her chin jutted forward. "I simply forgot the notion of being queen. Of course," she seemed to relax a bit, and took a sip of tea. "I have pondered the idea in the past months. What I would do, how I would act, what changes I would make. It is a matter of oversight, that is all," she paused for a moment. "I suppose since Edoras has been jilted of a royal wedding, they might insist on a proper coronation."

"Indeed."

She sighed. "I do dread the circumstance of it all. But do not misunderstand me," at this her eyes twinkled. "I find you perfect recompense for court life. I never considered that I would be so passionately in love with the man I married. I have been content living in Yuldburg, but I completely anticipate being more than joyful as mistress of _your_ home."

"That is reassuring," Éomer said. "For I swore to Éothain I would return in two days."

Lothíriel choked on her tea. "Two days? We would have to leave tomorrow!"

He leaned back in his chair, still smiling. "I doubt Éothain imagines that I will return with a bride. Though if I send Elfhelm back with a message…he may not begrudge us an extra day or two."

Her responding grin was predatory. "If that is the case, husband, then we should make the most of our time, do you not agree, _hmm_?"

.

.

It was a proper holiday. Pleasant walks in the mountain paths, a single and particularly cold swim in the river, and rides through seas of ripening wild grass. Every night Éomer held his wife in his arms, and she held him in return. He found that he came apart at her touch, for though this intimacy was only beginning to blossom, it held promises that would multiply the strengths of their love.

It was soon decided that Éomer needed to return to Edoras, and Lothíriel would need to step into her new roles. Her belongings were packed quickly, and a second and far more proper feast was held for them in the village - this one with many tears from Rowyn and several poorly disguised throat-clearings from Widow Halfa. His wife would make an exceptional queen, he knew, as he witnessed the obvious affection she held for the members of her little hamlet and the adoration they had for her in return. She had saved them from ruin, while ensuring their fruitful future. She had given them hope, and he as well.

She rode with him on Firefoot for the short journey with Chaser trailing behind, having been demoted to carrying his mistress's possessions. Lothíriel leaned forward slightly to enjoy the wind in her hair at high speed. Or, to tempt him with a certain part of her anatomy pressing against a certain part of his own. She certainly was the type of woman to do so, he was learning. He could smell her special scent, and with the Golden Hall in sight, he closed his eyes briefly and thought, _This is it. This is what I have waited for_.

.

.

_Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen._


	11. Riverdance

_Every finger is touching, searching, until your secrets come out. In the dance as it endlessly circles: I linger close to your mouth._

_._

_._

**April 1 FA**

_Éomer loved a good laugh_ , and he struggled to contain his muffled chuckles as they rode through the great gates to Edoras amid confused looks from the sentries and curious stares from the people milling around the lowest rounds of the city. It was standard practice, after all, for only immediate family members to ride a man's horse. The only exceptions were in times of war in order to carry fugitives or injured persons to safety. He could feel Lothíriel stiffen slightly at the critical gazes, though she bowed her head graciously at all that they passed.

"They will look more fondly upon you when they know you are their queen," he whispered into her hair. "They stare because they are bewildered."

"I understand," she turned her head to address him better. "But this first impression is still quite important. I am sure the tales will carry to the lowest palace mice by supper." He smiled in reply, but her attention was already returned to the people, who were beginning to line up near the well-worn path, having obviously heard of the coming of the long-absent king with an exotic-looking lady riding with him. By the time they neared Meduseld, quite a crowd had gathered and were looking upon them in silence.

Féola was waiting by the royal stables. Éomer dismounted, intending to help Lothíriel down, but was dismayed to see her alight on her own. So he had to suffice with handing Firefoot's reins to his squire. The boy looked no less frightened than he had on the day he had met the princess, and his wide eyes added to his king's amusement.

"What is the joke?" Lothíriel asked in a low voice, taking his arm. "You seem to be on the precipice of bursting into laughter, and I wish to know the cause."

He patted her hand, and together they began the trek upwards to the golden hall. "You are a surprise bride, is all," he said. "The reactions we witness shall be most enjoyable."

"My own excitement is difficult to contain." Her tone was slightly dry.

They had climbed the steps, and turning so that their backs faced the hall and the still lingering people could see them clearly, Éomer raised his voice. "Behold your queen!" The effect was immediate: gasps ran through the crowd, and a brave few that came to terms with his announcement much more quickly, cheered - their voices nearly whipped away by the wind. Satisfied with the gossip that would follow and unwilling to linger, he turned to his wife. "Would you like to become acquainted with your new domain?"

"I surely would." Her twinkling eyes, the only witness to her amusement at the scene, turned his stomach in the most pleasant fashion. The doorwards, stony-faced even now, opened the entrance for the pair. He had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted to the much dimmer interior, and by the time he could see again, Lothíriel had left his side to explore the hall. Drat! Perhaps one of the few times his wife's natural curiosity could be cursed. In all honesty, he wished they could have retired to his bedchamber straightaway. It had been difficult enough to keep focus during the journey from Yuldburg.

He was forced to be satisfied with following her around for the remainder of the afternoon, as she introduced herself to all the servants and others milling about Meduseld, of which there were many. When Lothíriel had been announced to the crowded kitchen as Éomer's wife, the housekeeper had jumped to her feet to shake the princess's hand most affectionately. "Bless ye, lass," the woman said. "We have been waiting long for the king's good humor to return. I can see you have been holding it hostage! Thank you, thank you!"

Lothíriel simply looked bemused, and Éomer blushed scarlet. When they left to explore the cellar (after all, they _had_ to visit the whole of Meduseld on _that very day_ ), she turned to him. "Come now, Éomer," she said. "I should hope that you have not let your internal malaise affect your rule. That would be most unseemly."

"Well," he said, embarrassed. "I would prefer for the past to remain in the past, and that we not speak of it any longer."

"It might be prudent, King of the Riddermark," she said, trailing a long finger on the top of a dusty barrel. "To learn to master your temper into more appropriate outlets than your household."

They were alone in the quiet cellar, with only a lone window near the dirt roof to let the afternoon sun seep into shining rays. He could see barely see Lothíriel's form in the dimness, and though he knew her words had merit, he decided that he had a better use for her lips. She took a breath to continue speaking, no doubt to lecture him more, but Éomer moved close to her, backing her against the barrel, which teetered. He raised a hand to her face, and put a thumb to her bottom lip to open her mouth slightly. "I have an idea," he said, and he lowered his head to her neck. "Why don't we," he kissed the skin there slowly, letting his tongue linger on the forming goosepimples. "Discuss just how to improve my manners…" he did the same on the other side of her neck, just below her ear. A strangled moan was vibrating in her throat. "At another time." He raised his head so that their lips almost touched. She was panting slightly, and her eyes were closed though her lips remained parted. As he paused, her eyelids fluttered open, exposing dark pools with such a sensual expression that shivers began to crawl up his spine. He deserved it, he supposed, for causing her the same sensations. He kissed her deeply, bringing his hands up to cup her face and to keep her from escaping - though he did not think that escape would be on her mind. She was humming, obviously contented with how he was touching her. And knowing just how satisfied she was threw Éomer's thoughts into chaos. He could think of nothing but her, of her taste and the pleasure her body offered…

He grasped her thighs, and with a swift motion, he lifted her so that she sat on the barrel, and she wrapped her legs around his middle. His hands found the bottom of her skirt, and lifted it so that her legs were exposed to the knee. He almost groaned to feel her dratted bloomers in the way. "Pull the ties," she pulled away to whisper. He did as she bade and then began to slide his hands inside of the cloth. Her skin was soft to the touch, though her muscles hardened under his ministrations.

"Relax," Éomer ceased the kissing and looked at her longingly in his hunger. He could smell her very well at so close a distance, and he was beginning to lose his composure. He lowered his head and nudged the neckline of her dress to the side with his nose, attending to her sensitive collarbone, which he had discovered of late to be especially sensitive. Her back was arched as she tried to press herself to him, and her head was thrown back in bliss.

There was nothing but them, their lips, their tongues, their moans. Even with only half-formed thoughts, Éomer greatly wished that his bed was not on the other side of Meduseld. This was not the place to finish their activities, and he did not want to try to sneak a half-dressed woman, albeit his wife, to his chambers. They would surely be stopped and pressed into more introductions, and after being seen in discomposure, questioned as to their intentions. With great moral difficulty, he lifted his head and gently removed her legs from his hips. "We should stop before we are discovered," he said softly, kissing the tip of her nose.

Lothíriel sighed, but she re-laced her bloomers in seeming good spirits. He helped her to step to the ground. "You must promise me that tonight we need not refrain," she said.

"I swear it," He brushed some stray hair from her flushed cheeks. "Unfortunately, I am afraid we must smile politely through a feast and more felicitations before we are free."

"I shall not complain," she said tartly, taking his arm as they mounted the steps into the bright kitchen. "I am determined to love everything about your home. Besides, I am not one to be unhappy in my circumstances." After assuring the head cook of their satisfaction in the provisions in the cellar, Éomer declared his intention to show off the council chamber next.

They turned a corner, and nearly ran into a blustering man on the council. "My lord!" he gasped, leaning against the wall and clutching his side in apparent exhaustion. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. "Have you send riders to Dunharrow as yet? If not, I will speak to Éothain!"

Lothíriel's fingers tightened on his arm. "What is the matter, Béor?" Éomer asked, trying not to be affectd by her agitation.

Béor looked confused."I thought you came from there!"

"I did," Éomer said. "But there was peace when we departed this morning. Has there been news?"

"Er...no. We only assumed, that since..." he gestured vaguely towards Lothíriel. "She came with you..." He looked back and forth from his liege to the mysterious lady. At their raised eyebrows, and Éomer's slight grin, the man began to look nauseated.

"This is my wife," Éomer said. "Lothíriel, late princess of Dol Amroth."

"Oh! Ah...my lady," Béor bowed quickly. "Pardon my ignorance, this has come as a, ah, surprise."

"It has to us all," Lothíriel replied, favoring him with blindingly beautiful and extremely gracious smile. "You said, 'we?'"

Béor gestured towards the council chamber, having gained control of himself. "This way, my lady. We were in council when we heard the news that Lord Éomer returned to Edoras with a woman sharing his saddle, and immediately became concerned of an attack or raid of some sort."

"Sharing a saddle, eh?" Lothíriel murmured to Éomer.

"'Tis a figure of speech," he whispered back.

"Ah. It certainly had that ring to it."

The councilman bowed again to usher them into the room. The tension rippling through the murmuring men was palpable, and Éomer cleared his throat loudly. "There is no war," he announced, his voice carrying though he did not raise it. "I apologize for the misunderstanding. There is no danger - for I have brought a bride. She will be crowned as queen a week hence. I imagine that some organization on your part might be necessary?"

The shocked silence amused him to the highest degree. He looked down to see Lothíriel compressing her lips in a thin line to keep from smiling. After a moment, an elderly man stood abruptly, hobbling to his king. "My lord! My sincerest congratulations," he shook Éomer's hand first, and then bowed over Lothíriel's, kissing it. "I had the opportunity of dancing with the lady during Yule year before last. She is an exceptional dancer, I hope that you treasure her!"

Lothíriel was clearly hard-pressed to keep from laughter. She thanked the old man profusely, made note of his name, and assured him that he was healthy indeed to be so light on his feet. At the example of this man's alacrity, the other council members, though hesitant at first, all began to rise and give their best wishes to the couple. Éomer was satisfied with this effort, and for any harboring doubts...well, Lothíriel would sort them out soon enough, if they were so bold to speak out.

Soon enough was to become immediately. One man, Caedda, whose tone made Éomer's skin crawl, performed a respectful salute to his almost-queen but his words did not match. "Princess Lothíriel, it is an honor indeed," he said. "Since I have heard tales of...your adventures in the wilderness, I have been most anxious to meet this unusual Gondorian. Your beauty is balm to a soul as darkened as His Majesty's."

Lothíriel was unimpressed, and her smile turned into a frown. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Caedda. But I can only assume, by the glint in your eye, that you know exactly the offense you intended to cause by your words. You will find me very plain spoken, sir, and so it might behoove you to pay back in kind. I recommend both honesty and respect from you in the future." Her grip tightened on Éomer's arm, and he winced slightly.

Caedda's face was pinched. "Of course, my queen," he said. "I apologize for any slights of your nobility."

"Even so," she said. A veil had descended on her face, and Éomer worried slightly to see that her manners remained slightly removed, even though the remaining men were quite civil. He pulled her from the room in all the politeness he could once the introductions were finished. "Do not be alarmed," he said quietly to her. "It is my own fault - I have been neglectful for the past months, and so the council has been required to act in my name in several instances. It has not been the best environment for humility to grow."

"I am not alarmed," she said. "I am quite capable to sort a few men out. I was the presiding lady at Dol Amroth in my youth, as you know."

"You seemed to be angry, that is all."

"Ah - but I only _seemed_ to be," she said. "That is the trick. I do not grow irritated very quickly at paltry shallowness, as it is so very ridiculous and I do consider myself above it, but no one else needs to know that, eh?"

Éomer was laughing at her cleverness as he swung open the door to his - now their - chambers. Her bags had been brought up and set on the bed, the windows opened and floor swept. He probably should have sent a message with better instructions, he decided belatedly, for more cleaning would not have gone amiss. He stuck a hand out and smacked the heavy velvet curtains that hung around the bed, and dust billowed out of it in a grey cloud. Lothíriel no longer looked amused.

"I may have been living on a farm the past year and a half," she said, fixing him with her gaze. "But cleanliness is attainable, no matter the richness of the furniture. Honestly, Éomer! Could you not have arranged for everything to be cleaned every once in a while?"

"Eh…" Éomer said. "I have not been expecting anyone to share my chambers in the near future. And as you know, I have been away in Gondor for the past several months. My thoughts have been elsewhere."

Her expression softened slightly, but her words did not. "I shall see that we have a change of linens before we retire tonight. But I think that for now I will change into a dress more suitable for supper. Will you return to escort me?"

"Indeed. If you do not require my assistance to remove your clothing…"

"You have been a bridegroom for far too long to be making such coy suggestions!" Lothíriel exclaimed, physically turning him towards the door with his hands and pushing him. "You should spar with your men or tend to Firefoot, as long as you have time to bathe afterwards."

"Very well!" Defeated, Éomer left his wife to her own pursuits.

.

.

Lothíriel had insisted that they sit at the long tables along the hall instead of at the king's table. Fearful of what his friends and subjects might say about him and his past behavior, it was with trepidation that he agreed to her wish. But on the contrary, she engaged all in conversations about subjects well removed from their own courtship, asking questions about families and occupations. She answered inquiries about her past in turn, but rebuffed any sort that probed too deep. Her diplomatic skills were unmatched by any he knew, except perhaps Aragorn and his lady wife's own father. As such, he was not required to contribute to the conversation, and he enjoyed his ale and venison while listening with interest to all Lothíriel had to say. She had even successfully drawn Elfhelm into the conversation, who was a recluse like Éomer and slightly biased unfavorably towards his now queen. Her charming nature lessened Elfhelm's agitation, and he hoped it might soothe all from his own recent trespasses.

Before the dancing began, a few singers performed to allow all to rest and their food to settle. Éomer and his wife - he did love to refer to her as such - had turned in their seats to face the performers, who sat in a semicircle at the foot of the raised dais where the king normally sat. A song of the loss of a lover, one of a Rohirric maid that loved a dwarf (a local legend), and another of sea-longing. The final one was a poor choice, he thought, for though he knew her to be disinclined to tears, Lothíriel's eyes were misted over, and her grip was painful on his leg.

"Ouch," he whispered to her as soon as it ended, and unclasped her fingers from his thigh.

"Oh - I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the applause. "You should have told me sooner."

"You were far away."

She blushed. Aha! Finally - he had caused that becoming redness that spread across her cheeks. Though it had been not been intentional. Well, he would not wish a broth and begrudge a soup. A single singer stood, tall with greying hair, and beseeched for the audience to participate in the next song. He had put his harp on the ground, as the only accompaniment were drums. "For our lady queen," he said, bowing low in Lothíriel's direction. She inclined her head.

It was not a tune that Éomer was familiar with, but after humming a few lines he was able to contribute to the added chorus. The deep tones of the men were stirring, and when the woman joined shivers crawled up his spine. Lothíriel turned to smile at him, as if knowing his excitement. Sitting next to her, he could hear her own voice quite well. He squeezed her hand.

The song crescendoed before ending loudly, and dancing began straightaway while energy still ran through the crowd. He pulled his wife to her feet and pushed her gently towards the left side of the room, where the women were to begin their steps. He knew he should resist, but did not - and swatted her on the behind before she was out of reach. She grinned back cheekily. He thought he heard laughter from the men next to him, but paid little heed. Let them envy him. He was touchable by discomfort no longer.

In similitude of attracting a mate, there were several beats of men showing their acrobatic prowess to catch the eyes of the women, and the ladies in turn taking light steps to tease. Finally, they came together and were paired off. One imaginative soldier seemed to have designs to entrap his queen, but an elbow in the gut from his king had him clutching himself and hobbling away in distress. Éomer pulled Lothíriel into the first steps by her waist while she laughed at him. He would proudly own up to his own manipulations, but later - for now the music was too loud and fast to make conversation.

They formed a circle with four other couples, wrapping arms around so that the group was tightly knit as they spun to the right for eight counts, and back to the left for the same. They released, clutched hands, raised them with a whoop, and then continued the pattern. Sixteen counts and couples formed once more, and Éomer held Lothíriel around the waist and they spun in place. Her smile was unmatched, except perhaps by his, and it was beginning to grow hot in the Hall. More twirling, more stamping, more weaving within and without other couples. And then he saw a chance - and he took it.

They turned right into a deserted corridor, and Éomer did not cease their dancing until they were near to the end of it at the other side of the hall, and the music had faded. They paused, breathing heavily. "I suppose you only danced with me so that you might sneak me away from proper supervision," Lothíriel said, but she did not step away from him.

"You caught me," he said. "But there was really no sneaking about it. I beg forgiveness for taking you away from the celebration, but I thought we might have a private dance of our own."

Her smile burst on her face like a sunbeam from a raincloud, lighting Éomer's heart to a point where he thought he might grow wings on his feet. As much as he desired her, the tender feelings he also had won for a moment. He placed a hand on her face and kissed her gently. "I do love you, Lot."

"Oh! Do not presume to call me that, husband!" She looked stern, but laughter began to break through and he decided not to take her seriously. "And I love you, you silly man. Has anyone ever told you that you are a lousy dancer? Because you are - you always seem more intent on touching certain parts of my body rather than the exercise."

"Dancing is merely exercise to you? I imagine any dance instructor you had as a child would be clutching his heart in shock at such a statement."

"Only to see me as a queen."

"Perhaps I will send him a letter to share the happy news."

Lothíriel's brows knit together. "You should write to my father first. I certainly am not so bold in heart to do such a thing. Anyway, he likes you better. He will take our sudden marriage more fitfully that way."

"Then I shall - on the morrow." He began to push her from behind towards their chamber while she laughed. "But my schedule is filled for the remainder of the evening."

.

.

One thing that Éomer had never understood, was the idiom that he often heard from the men out on patrols: ' _I could become accustomed to holding her every day_ ', they would sigh. Why would anyone take lightly the very things about their women that made their blood race and their hearts pound? He feared that if he ever took Lothíriel's intoxicating presence casually, he would begin to love her less.

These ponderous thoughts overtook him as he laid in bed soon after dawn. She was curled up close by, having had to explain to him multiple times over the course of the previous few nights and especially the latest one, that she could not possibly find any rest while he held her in his arms; that it was too cumbersome and awkward for her to relax enough to sleep. And so he had sighed, and considered himself the most unlucky man in Arda for her removal from him. But she had only laughed at his melodrama and would not be swayed. And she had also insisted on wearing nightclothes! She claimed it to be more comfortable, and Éomer hated it.

The sun began to break through the breezy curtains that hung at the east-facing window, and Éomer commended himself for resisting for so long the urge to touch her. But now there was no reason - or at least none he wished to acknowledge - as their day would soon begin. He turned on his side and scooted towards her, breathing in deeply as her scent became stronger so close to her body. Despite their nearness in height, they fit together perfectly, and he snuggled in close and threw an arm around her, searching for one of her hands and holding it tightly. He nuzzled her neck before bending to kiss her shoulder. "It is time for us to face the day, my love," he whispered in her ear.

She stirred, slowly at first but soon enough to yawn and stretch in her current position. She flipped over, eyes still closed. "You interrupted an interesting dream, husband," she murmured. "I wish you had not."

"And what was your dream about?"

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. "I was swimming in a vat of purple sand."

He chuckled and clasped her tighter, which she did not resist. She buried her face into his shoulder, and he began to stroke her hair. "I missed you," he said softly.

She exhaled sharply in disbelief. "I was right here the entire night."

"But the bed is _sooo_ big…"

His false whining earned him laughter, which he intended. "Perhaps I will take pity on you tonight," his wife mused, lifting her face to smile at him. "And we might try sleeping holding hands."

"Holding hands!" he acted affronted. "That is cold treatment for the newly wedded!"

"And a lack of sleep would be far worse, for all the duties you have given me. I am certain you do not wish for a queen that sleeps during council meetings!"

He chuckled and planted a kiss on her brow. "You may win this instance; but there must be compensation." It was as though she had known his intention all along; with a fluid motion she sat astride him. The thin coverlet fell from her shoulders, and Éomer took it as an invitation to unlace her nightgown, which she pulled over her head - a most pleasing view - baring the entirety of her nakedness to his gaze. He hummed in pleasure, running his hands up her sides.

"You must excuse the pun," she said, showing no distraction from the point even in the intimacy of the action. "But perhaps it might be more appropriate if you were to say that I came out _on top_."

Was their shared laughter heard down outside of their bedroom? Presumably so. And did their moans and the creaks of the old oaken bed echo in the corridor? Perhaps more so. But Éomer cared little, and he knew Lothíriel did not care at all. What shame should there be in their intimacy any way? He felt no embarrassment for sharing his body, and glorified in partaking of her sweetness. The sensations were still new and titillating, though it remained bitter to admit that they could not _possibly_ make love _all_ day, whether duties were imminent or not.

Éomer was lacing his boots when Lothíriel began to sing in the dressing room. Amrothos, (may the name never again be mentioned in their bedchamber), had not been wrong about the pleasantness of her voice. It was clear and strong, and he moved to stand in the adjoining doorway to watch her as she combed out her thick hair.

_Lavender's blue, rosemary's green_

_When you are king, I shall be queen_

_Who told you so, who told you so?_

' _Twas my own heart, that told me so._

_Lavender's blue, rosemary's green_

_If you love me, I will love you_

_Let the birds sing, and the lambs play_

_We shall be safe, out of harm's way._

_I love to dance, I love to sing,_

_When I am queen, you will be king_

_Who told me so, who told me so?_

_I told myself, I told me so._

By the last verse, he could not resist her any longer, and pulled the comb from her hands to whirl her around the small room in an impromptu dance. She barely finished the song before dissolving into giggles. "Éomer, please!" she cried. "You are causing me serious discomposure! I shan't accomplish a lick of work today if you insist on being so, so…"

"Handsome?" he suggested, ceasing the twirling but still embracing her. "Charming?"

"So very enjoyable to be with!"

"If that is your complaint, I will not comply. You have given my heart both hope and love, and I doubt I shall ever be serious again."

Her smile turned contemplative as she pulled away from his arms. She placed a hand on his cheek and gazed upon him in wonder and affection before kissing him, and then declaring that it was time for them to part for the remainder of the day. He tried to persuade her to linger, but to no use. The prospect of suspended desire and loneliness in their separate roles would wear on him...but the nights would at least be pleasant. With that thought to comfort him, and knowing the partner of his life was finally by his side, it was suddenly easy for him to be king once more.

.

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_The verse at the beginning of the chapter was written to the talented Bill Whelen. The song is a traditional English tune._


	12. Heartland

_Every familiar field seems like an old friend when every hand that you shake is like a warm embrace. It could only be one sweet place: home and the heartland._

_._

_._

**March 2 FA**

_Éomer walked down the corridor_ towards the royal apartments, unable to keep the spring from his steps. Happiness always made him light-footed, and lately, there was no question of his pleasure. And today, his favorite breakfast of ham steaks and boiled potatoes had been only a prelude, for during the short meeting with his counselors, the arithmetic had been done to show that the land in the Mark had produced enough food for the winter. Next year they could begin paying back their debts to Gondor, and none more would be taken out. This day was guaranteed to get even better as well, for they were expecting guests.

He knocked briefly on the door to the bedchamber before entering. A breeze of cold air hit him. Though early spring, fires were still necessary through the night and early morn. But Lothíriel had been insistent, these past months, that no warm flame would be allowed in her presence. As he had expected, her sprawled form was still abed, soft snores permeating the chamber. She must have gotten more heated than normal, for her nightgown was pulled up her thighs, and the window had been flung open. Éomer had always considered himself to cope well with chilly weather, but during the progression of his wife's pregnancy throughout the winter, he had begun wearing socks to bed to keep his toes from numbing. Lothíriel, of course, had found this extremely amusing.

He bent over her, lightly brushing his lips to hers, but to no response. She was nearly impossible to wake these days, for her sleep was deep and long. He had not seen her awake before mid-morning for months. He could not help indulging her, for the tales he had heard from other men about raging moods and uncontrolled weeping made him grateful for her retained presence of mind, even at the cost of her normal abundance of energy. He brushed some loose hairs from her face, and whispered her name softly. She did not stir. He sighed, and shook her shoulders.

"Lothíriel!"

She gave a great snore and finally opened her eyes, blinking rapidly as she stared at him. "Oh, I am sorry, Éomer my love," she said, her voice cracking before she yawned hugely. "I intended to wake earlier to prepare myself, but I got dizzy when I stood. I tried to stay awake when I laid back down, but I must have dozed."

"Do not fret," he told her, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking one of her sweaty hands in his. "I sent Elfhelm to collect your father's company, and he promised to send a man ahead when they were on their way. None have come, so you still have plenty of time."

She yawned again, and her eyelids were in serious danger of drooping shut. He had to do something.

"Your bath is already prepared," he said loudly, her eyes shooting back open. "I can help you to the tub, and then fetch you some breakfast while you wash."

"An almost perfect plan," she murmured, and turned to her side, wiggling her hips to settle herself more comfortably. "Why don't you bring me breakfast first?"

It seemed he had no choice, for her eyes were closed once more, and her breathing slow and even. He felt privileged for having deserved her love, and so could not help himself from being so generous to her. It was fortunate she had established herself before she discovered that she was carrying their child, for these days she did little in the way of queenly duties. Nobody minded, he least of all, but the strain of her own "uselessness", as she put it, was hard on her. And so Éomer found himself caring for her, running errands, rubbing her feet, and had even convinced the old housekeeper to temporarily return to her position. Despite this, they were so very happy, and he hoped it showed.

Prince Imrahil had responded to the announcement of their marriage remarkably well. His words of congratulations had been a bit stilted, to be sure, but he seemed genuinely pleased at their newfound love. His party was the one expected this day for the belated celebrations, and Éowyn's family a week hence, travelling with Aragorn's court. He was looking forward to seeing friends and family, but worry niggled at him, for would there be judgment towards their sudden marriage?

Éomer pondered this as he fetched a breakfast tray, piling it high with the queen's favorite nut bread, which lately she had been devouring by the loaf. He served himself some extra ham at the insistence of the old cook, and returned to the bedchamber.

Lothíriel was still sleeping. He set the tray down on a table, not trying to soften the noise, and approached her. "Now, wife," he said sternly, setting his hands on his hips as he looked down on her. "You must wake up now. Your father will be in today, and he is going to learn a very low opinion of you if you are still abed. I have brought you your breakfast, so no excuses. I will not be dissuaded from your waking."

She groaned, but with laborious movements, set herself up. Mollified with her efforts, Éomer fluffed a few pillows and set them behind her back, which she sunk into gratefully. "Will you serve me, then?" she asked, her words a cross between a challenge and a tease as he set the tray on her lap.

"I shall eat with you, surely," he assented and climbed into bed with her, and together they feasted, discussing the schedule of the next days and what needed to be done. Éomer pretended not to see her sneaking fingers pilfering his ham, for he found with experience that Lothíriel was happiest when she ate what she wanted, and today, she clearly wanted ham.

"How late do you expect the feast to go tonight?" she asked, setting a slice of ham between two slices of nut bread. He felt slightly nauseated at the sight.

"Erm...not too late. It is only a small welcome feast, the real one will be thrown when the parties from Minas Tirith and Ithilien arrive," he replied. "But I imagine your brothers will want to continue the feast by drinking for several hours."

She sniffed. "I would expect nothing less." Éomer did not respond until they were finished, when he rose to remove the tray and set it aside.

"Do not stress yourself over it, my love. Come, let me take you to your bath. It should be properly cold, so I think you will enjoy it."

.

.

They stood together on the steps of Meduseld to welcome Lothíriel's family. She had opted to wear a summer dress, and was enjoying the cold wind, which nobody else seemed too pleased about. Éomer felt so very proud, for despite the babe she carried, she stood straight and looked so very queenly. Though this appearance was tossed to the breeze as she squealed to see her brothers and father. A different reaction than the last time they had ridden to see her, those nearly two years ago in the desert. _At least the weather is much more pleasant_ , he thought to himself.

Ignoring propriety, she hobbled down the steps to embrace each of her family members as they alighted from their mounts. Amrothos was first, making some teasing comment which earned him a cuff on the shoulder. Éomer watched fondly, wishing that he was privileged to hit the youngest prince of Dol Amroth at his pleasure! Erchirion was next, greeted with much more fondness, and Elphir was much the same. Worry gnawed at him as he saw his wife approach her father, who was standing stiffly by her horse. They exchanged words, and then Imrahil allowed his daughter to hug him. Perhaps this would be more difficult than he anticipated. He himself gave his friend an enormous smile when Imrahil came up the steps.

"I am pleased to have you visit my home once more," he said by way of greeting. They embraced shortly, and Imrahil held him at arm's length and looked at him with shrewd eyes.

"You must know, Éomer, that when I asked you to look after my daughter, I did not mean by taking her into your family." Éomer stared at him for a short moment, but seeing amusement in his friend's features, joined him in laughter. Imrahil continued, "Lothíriel is happy, and I am happy. My best wishes for you both, though it seems they are hardly needed."

"They are appreciated all the same," he said, and together they entered the hall, Lothíriel and her brothers trailing behind. "I have worried for your reaction."

"I myself have worried for yours and Lothíriel's happiness. I would hate to find you wedded so scandalously for any pretense of allegiance or duty."

"Father!" They paused to let the lady catch up with them. She tucked her arm through her husband's, which pleased said husband greatly. "Please do not censure Éomer, your quarrel is with me."

Éomer did not find himself surprised at her nobility of spirit, but when he looked down at her, he was quite astonished at the stubbornness in her eyes as she gazed at her father. He had not seen her so at-arms for many months, and decided that this was not the best time to be antagonistic, if they wanted to win the approval of their friends. But still, she was holding herself straight and tall, and for sheer will alone, Éomer loved her more for it.

"I was not censuring Éomer," Imrahil was saying, more amused for her reaction. "I was simply telling him that I am pleased with this match, but more for your joy."

"Ah," Lothíriel's cheeks pinkened slightly, and Éomer patted her hand.

"Shall we show your family to their rooms, my sweet?"

.

.

The afternoon of excitement, of renewing acquaintances and familial relationships punctuated by the glowing elation of a new grandchild soon to come, petered down slightly as Éomer and Lothíriel readied themselves for the evening meal. He was actually feeling quite calm, though that could be accounted to something particular that was bothering him. He watched his wife tie her bloomers below her belly, admiring the sight and fully satisfied by the thought that _he_ had put the baby there. She sat on the bed awkwardly before pulling hose over her dainty feet and trim ankles straight up to her delightful knees. Catching sight of his staring, she wiggled her feet at him. "See something you like?"

The words were suggestive, as her comments to him often were, and Éomer smiled in return. "Perhaps tonight if you are not too exhausted from the dancing, I might be persuaded to help you out of those undergarments. They look mightily uncomfortable," he said.

She stood and fetched the gown she was to wear for the evening: wine-colored with an embroidered cream sash. "Could I bother you for help at present?" she asked.

Éomer disregarded his own half-hearted preparations and began to tie the dress down her back. It might be the last night she could wear this particular piece in her growing form, but he decided not to mention it. There was not a lot of give left in the lacings. When complete, his hands stayed on her waist, and he bent slightly to kiss her shoulder. "I am done," he said.

"Perfect. Now it is your turn." She ushered him to the chair where had been sitting and began to comb out his hair with gentle strokes. Relaxed by her touch, he finally gathered courage - not being in her eyeline helped - and asked:

"When did you fall in love with me?"

Her hands stopped the motions, her fingertips resting on his scalp in such a way that goosebumps began to rise across his neck. "Your tone is heavy for a merry evening," she commented.

"It occurred to me that I have never asked you, and you have never volunteered the answer. I did overhear Erchirion ask you the very same thing this afternoon, but you only said it was none of his business. I confess myself quite curious."

She tied back his hair with a leather thong, weighing the ponytail between her hands briefly before smoothing it down. "I do not remember the date," she said. "I only recall seeing you ride into Yuldburg with eyes only for me, and I wished then that I could marry a man that always greeting me in such a way. And then I thought: ' _why, here is the very man! Why search for another_?'"

"So I am to assume that you chose me out of convenience?"

"Oh! Good heavens, Éomer, that is _not_ what I said!"

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto his lap, holding her in his gaze. "Then tell me exactly what you meant."

She smiled, stroking his face with long fingers. "You have always exhibited just the qualities I wished for the partner of my life to have. I did not notice quite at first, but on that day I realized how unique you were, as far as men go."

"Was this before I asked for your hand originally?"

"Yes. And before you asked my why I refused when I was already in love with you: I have no reasonable explanation beside my own ridiculous and misplaced pride."

His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "For such an intelligent woman, you do have your fits of silliness."

Lothíriel laughed and tried to pull herself out of his lap, only succeeding when he gave her a boost by pushing on her rear end. Not that helping her was his only intention. "If you declare yourself satisfied with this explanation straightaway, we might not arrive so late for the feast!"

"We shall do as my queen bids."

.

.

Éomer enjoyed watching his wife dance with her brothers and father. She was completely unreserved with them, and he wondered if she had been holding back a measure of her spirit as he had known her. Her relations were very gentle with her, but she did not seem harbored by her larger size for the motions. He toasted Erchirion with his cup of mead as the prince looked apologetically upon his sister's husband, who stood alone beside a pillar. He thought it grand that Lothíriel loved her family enough to forgo her husband's company for the night, and certainly was not bitter - for he had firsthand knowledge of her love for himself. He knew she would love their child and the whole of their future family (and he prayed that it might be large) with all the strength of feeling that she possessed. And that was a nearly frightening amount.

"Come, Éomer!" Laughing gaily, his wife had pushed through the crowd after abandoning Erchirion to a bonny lady with chestnut hair. Lothíriel was apparently pleased with the matchmaking attempt, for after Éomer began to twirl her around to the music, she did not stop singing the praises of the lady (an excellent cook) and wishing fervently that Erchirion might come to leave nearby to Edoras - the lady lived on the edge of the Snowbourne, not twelve miles away! He agreed with all that she said, but his attention was captured all the more by her lips, which looked utterly delectable. An unfamiliar scent was crowding his senses, and he leaned in to sniff near his wife's neck.

"Éomer! What -"

He ignored her aghast tone. "Are you wearing perfume, Lothíriel?"

Her look instantly changed to one of mischievousness. "Indeed. My father was kind enough to bring along of my belongings from Dol Amroth as well as my dowry from Harad. This was the perfume I loved most from Harad - it is made from agarwood. I put it on after supper to clear my senses of those awful yams."

He laughed. "It is a most pleasing scent, in any case."

"I am glad that you think so. Erchirion also confided in me that my father brought me as a gift my bride price from my marriage to Barul! Evidently he will present it to us on the morrow, having brought it on condition of our happiness. You had best grow excited, for my collection of spices is unrivaled north of the river Harnen."

Éomer was unsure about this pronouncement. He had sampled many dishes in Minas Tirith which boasted exotic spices, and most of them left a burning sensation in his mouth and throat that prevented him from enjoying any flavors. It was not so unlike his fateful trip into the sandy wasteland - marking and fiery in the most miserable fashion. A thought struck him suddenly. "Lothíriel," he said. "Did you not bring a woman with you from your tribe?"

"Maida stayed in Minas Tirith after I informed her that I was to dwell in the land of snows," she explained "Her sense of adventure is...somewhat dull. But she is set up in my father's house as a washerwoman, and I am told that she is happy."

"And do you regret leaving your desert home?"

With a strong grip, Lothíriel clamped a hold on his arm, and with her regal grace began to guide him away from the center of the hall through the other dancers. Once out of the glowing light from the hearth and candles and away from prying ears, she placed her hands on either side of his face, looking upon him with tender sternness. "You must pay close heed to my words, husband, for I know doubt gnaws at you and I distaste repeating what I say. I am happier now with you than I ever have been in my life. I tolerated my life among the Haradrim because it was my duty, and what I did love about them will remain a fond memory. I have no intention of returning. You are my life now, which makes our love sweeter to the taste than any _arrangement_. I am well aware of my flaws, and I do not pretend to reassure others of things I know to be true. But I will tell you as often as I must - you are my dearest friend, most beloved husband, and I shall be with you always. Nothing can chase you from my heart."

His doubts fled with her noble words, and he gently removed her hands from his face and placed them on his heart. "Thank you, Lothíriel," he said softly. "I am sorry I have been uncertain."

"It is quite alright - not so ridiculous," she said, her eyes turning fierce. "But no longer."

"Very well." He kissed the tip of her nose fondly. "If we are sure of ourselves, might we dance a bit longer? If I am correct, the next dance is quite an intimate one."

His wife smiled and allowed herself to be steered back into the the whirling throng.

.

.

**Four months later.**

It was to Éomer's great distress to discover upon return from a lengthy patrol in the heat of summer, long after the festivities were finished and the guests gone, that his wife had given birth while he was away. Being informed by a very formal declaration recited by a door warden did not quite make up for the shouted felicitations and congratulations that had followed him through the winding paths of Edoras. He was extraordinarily put out, but mostly at himself. Lothíriel had warned him before his departure that he would miss the birth. He had dismissed her words, waving them away as the wiles of her loneliness, but now he realized that his wife was not really the type of woman to do such things. And he _had_ known that. He would be in for a great beratement for his foolishness.

But there were only soft smiles to meet him in their dimly lit bedchamber, even despite his rugged appearance. He had skipped his waiting bath and even forgoed removing his mail and hauberk, so excited was he to see Lothíriel and their new baby. She gave the bundle to him straightaway, unquestioning, and apparently satisfied to stay where she was sitting in bed. A sudden onslaught of terror hit him like a javelin in the stomach as the slight weight settled in his hands, which now seemed very large and rough in comparison to the soft and fluffy bundle. He knew nothing of babies! And this was one most precious - to his wife, to his nation, and to himself more than anything. Keeping his eye on the squished face, he concentrated on his balance and walked slowly - very slowly, to the rocking chair he had made for Lothíriel a few months earlier.

"A girl," she said in a quiet voice. "I did not wish to name her without you."

What devotion his wife showed him! To be willing to give her body to his growing seed, and to never once bemoan it. To allow him a measure of say in the identity of their daughter, where she might have come to a decision without him, as was matriarchal right. He tried to set the baby on his lap in a sitting position. The blanket fell away, and scrawny arms stretched in front of her face. He nearly gasped at the sight of her hair - it stuck up nearly two inches! Buried in the dark mass, her ears protruded slightly as well. Quiet squeaks began to come from her, so very soft that if the room had not been absolutely silent he could not have heard it.

"She probably thinks you smell. I certainly do."

"I could not wait," Éomer murmured, for fear of startling the baby. "I should not have left you."

"No," Lothíriel agreed. "But I forgive you. Oh, Éomer, I love her so much!" To his greater surprise than the reality of his fatherhood only a few minutes earlier, her voice broke, as if she was in danger of weeping. But she covered her face, and he looked back at his daughter to spare his wife the embarrassment of her emotional instability. Not that he found tears, specially happy ones, particularly embarrassing, but Lothíriel had her own views.

He was content to stare at their baby for a few moments, admiring her tiny nose, squinting blue eyes, and miniscule mouth. A tongue even poked out, smaller than he could have imagined. He did not even notice the cooing sounds he was making at her, or his enormous smile as her gaze turned to try to focus on him.

"Hello little one, I am your father. You may call me...Father. Hmm, yes, you are very cute, I shall be hard pressed to keep the boys away. Especially if you look like your mother. Do you know her very well yet? She is the pretty lady with the milk; I think you will like her. I certainly do, even without the milk. Oh, what perfect cheeks you have! Very ideal for kisses from your old da." He nuzzled her then, though very gently and trying not to let his whiskers prick her skin. And then he could not resist - he pretended to eat her chubby cheeks while growling about how delicious she was. She in return only grimaced in a baby sort-of way.

No longer discomfited, Lothíriel laughed, and left the bed in only her flowing nightgown to wind her arms around his neck from behind. She bestowed a tender kiss onto his grimy neck. "Thank you, Éomer," she said. "She is the finest gift I could have ever imagined."

_**FIN** _

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_Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen._

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_There it is folks. Do me a solid and drop a note if you liked it._

**Author's Note:**

> Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen. This story would not have come to full fruition if not for Riverdance. Most of the chapter titles are named after the dance or song numbers.
> 
> NOTE: This story is not meant to be canon. It's meant to be fun! I've read many, many Éomer/Lothíriel stories, and I decided that my own offering would try to take the commonalities in those stories and turn them on their heads. It's been challenging as a writer, but I've loved every minute of it. The events in 'Reel Around the Sun' take place every couple months, excepting a few at the beginning and end that follow consecutive days. As for deviating from dates, let's assume that a) Theoden is already buried in Edoras, and b) Éowyn convinced her dear brother to allow her to live in Minas Tirith leading up to her wedding, as she could not be parted from Faramir. I think that's about it, nearly all gap-fillers one could wish for will be resolved later in the story ;)


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